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PRIVATE (WAA.C) ON ACTIVE SERVICE 





Class. 

Book 

Copyright N?.. 






COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 



THE LETTERS OF THOMASINA ATKINS 

PRIVATE (W.A.A.C.)ON ACTIVE SERVICE 



THE LETTERS OF 
THOMASINA ATKINS 

BY 
PRIVATE (W.A.A.C.) ON ACTIVE SERVICE 



WITH A FOREWORD BY 

MILDRED ALDRICH 

Author of "The Hilltop on the Marne" 




NEW S^SdT YORK 
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



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Copyright, 1918, 
By George H. Doran Company 



SEP 16 1918 

Printed in the United States of America 



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TO THE LOVED ONE 

who thought sufficiently well of them 
to preserve them from the waste-paper 
basket, I rededicate these "Spur of 
the moment" letters, with my deepest 
gratitude and undying love. 

THOMASINA 

(For all practical purposes) 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/lettersofthomasiOOaldr 



FOREWORD 

THE World's War has been recorded liberally 
in the books it has inspired. 

Apart from the actual histories of the War 
— its military movements, its strategy, its 
politics, its diplomacy, its economics, its adven- 
tures on sea and land — and underground as well 
as in the air — there are the personal experiences 
which will be by no means its least interesting 
contributions to the students in the future who are 
to look back and try to understand this "great 
adventure," the most tragic and, we hope, the 
most glorious that humanity had yet encountered, 
for this is a struggle in which all classes and both 
sexes — civilians as well as soldiers — have played 
their part, and have had their losses as well as 
their glory. 

The simple soldier in the trenches, the common 
sailor on the warships and in the merchant service, 
the noble women wearing the badge of the Red 
Cross, the journalist, the party leader, the simple 
traveller, have all told their tales in books of 
more or less ephemeral nature — but often of a 
real value — and at last comes Miss Thomasina 
Atkins, England's special contribution to this 



Foreword 



war, and a character absolutely unique in this or 
any other war. 

This first of the British Women's Army Auxil- 
iary Corps, working behind the lines "somewhere 
in France," to record her experiences happens 
to be a girl whom I have known since she was a 
"kiddie" in very short skirts with pigtails down 
her back, and whose varied career I have watched 
as it took her through school and out into the 
world as a worker, little dreaming that the day 
would come when I should look out from my 
Hilltop in the War Zone to know that some- 
where behind the line this gently bred girl would 
be doing her bit there as a simple soldier, leading 
a soldier's life, with all its hardships and priva- 
tions and hard work, and recording it in letters 
"written home," letters to prove how easily in 
this great struggle the young women of England 
have proved that when the call "The Country is 
in Danger" was raised, they were not only ready 
and able to respond, but did respond. 

When the true story of Great Britain's mighty 
and unprecedented effort is finally told, the au- 
thentic record in letters like these will be one of 
the telling factors in the tale. 

No one better than we, who for nearly four 
years have lived inside the War Zone, can bear 
witness to how nobly the women of Great Britain 
have done their work over here — work often 
sordid, often menial, never — or almost never — 
picturesque. There is no limelight shining on 

[viii] 



Foreword 



them. There are neither footlights nor public. 
There is only hard work and the sense of a duty 
to be done, and they have done that duty heroic- 
ally. 

When the victorious armies return, no corps 
will better deserve the uncovered heads and the 
grateful cheers of the crowd than the Thomasina 
Atkinses of this Great War as they march in 
their place in the line. 

MILDRED ALDRICH. 

The Hilltop on the Marne, France, 
March, 191 8. 



M 



THE LETTERS OF 
THOMASINA ATKINS 



Somewhere, 
October 30th, 19 17. 
Dear Peachie, 

I am glad you are away from home for a few 
days, for it gives me the opportunity to write 
about something that — perhaps — I ought to have 
discussed with you before I took the plunge. You 
know how difficult it is for me to keep anything 
to myself — that is anything which concerns my- 
self — and really the boiler has all but busted this 
week. To "cut the cackle, and come to the 'osses," 
I have joined the Women's Army. Why? Well, 
the idea has been simmering in my brain-pan for 
some time. A certain poster — "Urgently Want- 
ed, 100,000 Women for Home and Foreign Serv- 
ice" — has been staring at me, and arguing with 
me like a revivalist parson until I could no longer 
find an excuse for not being one of the units in the 
required number. 

I hate being out of work, and, as you know, 
touring the Provinces has long since lost its nov- 

[13] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

elty for me, while London theatrical managers, 
though encouraging as to the future, are not 
exactly camping on my doorstep this season. I 
have had a pretty easy time so far, and a little 
hardship won't make me any less of an actress — 
( No remarks, please ! ) — so there you are. Well ! 
to return to the W.A.A.C. My references have 
been taken up, the Medical Board has passed me 
Ai, and now nothing remains but to get my kit 
together and to await marching orders to the 
hostel where I am to be vaccinated, inoculated, and 
generally prepared for France. Because of my 
proficiency in languages I was advised to sign for 
Class A, ''Ordinary Clerical Work," which seems 
to embrace all manner of jobs not strictly associ- 
ated with clerking. 

Au revoir, dear; you will come back to find me 
putting away all my fancy fribbles, and seriously 
contemplating practical duds, including the ribbed 
worsted stockings which my aesthetic soul has 
always abominated. 

Fondly (from now), 

Thomasina. 



[14] 



II 



Somewhere on the English Coast, 
November iph, 19 17. 
Dear Peachie, 

Yesterday, after we had said good-bye — it was 
good of you, in deference to my superstition, to 
leave the station before the train pulled out — I 
began to cast affectionate glances at my suit-case, 
which now represents boudoir and library, and 
contains the sparse wardrobe that I must accustom 
myself to for the duration of the war. It seems 
strange, this carrying all your belongings in your 
fist, but such are the regulations, and I shall now 
discover the multitude of superfluous things that I 
have so long regarded as necessaries. 

In the railway carriage with me were six other 
girls, and their air of pensive expectancy, together 
with their suit-cases, proclaimed them "W.A. 

A.C.s" like myself. On arrival at we were 

met by an official of the hostel, and there was a 
lorry to carry our traps. The hostel is made up 
of a number of houses, all connecting on the first 
floor, where the dividing walls have been removed, 
so one can pass from house to house without 
going into the street, and the easiest thing in the 
world is to lose your own house. 

[15] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

I was quite bewildered last night from being 
trotted from place to place, and after we had been 
fed, I was so tired that I felt I could have slept 
standing — but when it came to lying down, it was 
a different matter. It was a night of "cat naps"; 
the beds are very hard and the pillow is straw. 
My hot-water bottle was a joy — my weaning from 
luxury is evidently going to take time. We wash 
in the basement, in tin basins — cold water. We 
feed in the mess hall in the house at the corner 
of the street. It used to be a concert hall. The 
stage is the officers' mess, and they have a table- 
cloth. Our tables are bare deal, and the convert 
is primitive. The food is uninteresting, and the 
temptation to go out into the town and find some 
real hot tea is great. 

There are hundreds of girls here, mostly of 
the factory and the domestic-servant class. Such 
priceless accents ! And oh ! such odd faces — just 
like a Phil May panorama. There is a draft go- 
ing out to France to-morrow, and another on 
Saturday. I am to be inoculated to-morrow, and 
if I get over it without any trouble, I shall be sent 
over very soon. Well! the sooner the quicker, 
as we say. Here there is nothing to do but to 
"fall in" for meals, and that gives us time to 
realise that we are distinctly cold, lonely, and a 
bit hungry. 

One blessing, everybody agrees that this is the 
worst part of the whole job. In France condi- 
tions are more comfortable. Don't worry about 

[16] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

me, for I really feel very well, and shall doubt- 
less sleep all right to-night. 

I am free to go out any time before five. After 
I am inoculated I am excused from any duties for 
forty-eight hours; at the busiest of times I think 
"duties" only mean being Orderly for the day, or 
some rotten little job like that. I see by the board 
that I have to report somewhere at ten, so I must 
go and find out what they are going to do with me. 

This is a distrait sort of a letter, but I am more 
than a bit "wuzzy" this morning. We get up at 
6.45 ; roll-call at 7.45 ; then fall in and march 
to the mess hall. At night we have supper at 
seven : last night, soup and bread and bread pud- 
ding — not at all bad. Nothing to do after supper 
except to attend roll-call at 8.30; lights out 10.30. 

We sleep in rooms, six girls in mine counting 
me. The other Rve are quite nice girls, so I am 
able to manicure my nails and rub cold cream on 
my face without being made to feel either superior 
or eccentric. 

More to-morrow, 

Fondest love, 

Thomasina. 



[17] 



Ill 



Somewhere on the English Coast, 
November 14th, 19 17. 
Dear Peachie, 

Feeling much better to-day. We had a short 
drill before lunch — or dinner, as it is called — 
soup, then meat and potato stew. I was lucky, 
and drew a large portion. We have no bread 
at this meal, but at breakfast, tea, and supper we 
have one slice. The margarine is served in bowls 
in the middle of the table, and so one has plenty. 

Before drill I went for a sharp walk in the town 
in order to get warm; our job here is chiefly hang- 
ing about, so I have a chance to get ahead with 
my overdue correspondence. This afternoon I 
sallied forth again in search of a bath — the baths 
here are out of commission. I went to the 
Y.W.C.A. Headquarters, where for threepence 
I had a glorious soak; then, as I didn't feel like 
facing tea in the mess room, I treated myself to 
the real thing — out of a pot — one penny n. cup, 
bread-and-butter one penny, buns one penny. In 
fact you can be a glutton for sixpence, and delicacy 
forbids me even to imagine what would happen 
if you yielded to your carnal appetite to the extent 
of a "bob." 

The doctor is away to-day, so I have to report 

[18] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

to-morrow morning for inoculation. I think I 
can arrange for the vaccination to be done on my 
leg when I mention my profession, and the de- 
sirability of keeping my arms unscarred. They 
are very considerate of any real justification for 
anything, but they won't stand "frills" — and quite 
right. 

The officers are very nice and extremely smart. 
I have one particularly decent girl in my room; 
she is a forewoman clerk (gets 375. 6d. per week) 
and quite a jolly sort. When I look at my fellow- 
workers I feel optimistic about my promotion; but 
perhaps I underestimate them. The letter you 
enclosed has bucked me tremendously. As you 
probably saw by the handwriting, it is from our 
good old friend Captain G, who is still in Paris. 
It seems that as soon as he received news of my 
enlistment, he communicated with his friend and 

chief — Colonel S n — who is opening a new 

department over there, and, to "come to cues," 
it is more than likely that I shall be offered a 
really good position, with a salary about four 
times that of my present pay, not to include living 
expenses. According to Captain G, I am pecu- 
liarly equipped for the job in question, and he 
tells me I shall probably have a direct communi- 
cation from the colonel, who is now in London, 
so please open all letters for me, and if the 
magical message is among them, telegraph it 
literally. 

Dear old "G" thinks that a transfer will be 

[19] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

merely a matter of formality. Isn't it all noble 
of him? Imagine the bliss of doing responsible 
war work in Paris where so many of my friends 
are. Well ! sufficient for the day is the excitement 
thereof, 

Your loving 

Thomasina. 



[20] 



IV 



Somewhere on the English Coast, 
November 15 th, 1917- 
Dearest Peachie, 

The deed is done ; I was inoculated this morn- 
ing, right arm, and vaccinated left leg. The doc- 
tor was very decent, wanted a lot of explanation, 
but she did it — which is all that matters. 

My mental barometer has fallen considerably, 
but they tell me that inoculation is always fol- 
lowed by depression. We get jabbed again in a 
week's time; the vaccination is a single offence, 
thank the powers ! 

We have forty-eight hours free of drills, etc., 
and I shall take advantage of it to rest my leg. 
I don't want to go lame, because that would keep 
me back, and I imagine there will be little sym- 
pathy extended to a crank. 

Letters are handed out in the evening after 
supper, and in the morning about 9.30. I am 
not going up to mess hall to-night, but I have 
threatened an amiable little recruit with an early 
death, and bribed her with a fag and a match, 
to bring down my letters, if any. I pray there 
may be a letter from you, if only to tell me you 
are better. 

This army life is all right, but I do realise 

[21] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

"Tommy's" longing for letters. It is really tragic. 
Golly! but I do feel a beast when I think how 
I have neglected the poor boys I might have writ- 
ten to — that little Gunner who wrote me to the 
theatre six months ago, I have his letter in my 
desk at home, still unanswered, and he may be 
dead by now. No luck! I fear your eyes are no 
better. Good night. 

Later. 

Darling, I did not post my scrap of a letter 
last night. It is so bald and it just bristles with 
the personal pronoun, but how is one to keep that 
wretched "I" in the background? We are so 
fearfully important to ourselves, and then — it is 
about me that you really want to know — so here 
I go again. 

Your telegram containing the gist of the colo- 
nel's letter arrived an hour ago, and I pro- 
ceeded, with joy in my heart, to ask for leave 
to go to Town next Friday. Alas! There is 
nothing doing. When the Commanding Officer 
found out why I required leave, she told me 
it would be useless for me to see the colonel as I 
could not transfer. I have joined the jolly old 
army, and in the jolly old army I must stick. She 
did not use those exact words, but that was the 
implication. I could have howled! But I just 
grinned instead. 

Of course the only thing to do is to "carry on." 
I signed on of my own accord, and if I was a 

[22] 



The Letter 8 of Thomasina Atkins 

little precipitate, I have only myself to blame. 
Naturally, I can't help calling myself a few appro- 
priate names. The CO. was really very sweet; 
she is a charming woman. She explained that 
she could not possibly let me go, as there is a fresh 
requisition come through for clerks with a thor- 
ough knowledge of French, and I am to be drafted 
abroad as soon as the doctor has finished with 
me. I am told that I can easily work up to be 
an Administrator — which is equivalent to an of- 
ficer. So that's that! — and I must just forget 
about the golden opportunity, Paris, friends, and 
the whole boiling. 

Just at the present moment I am more help- 
lessly depressed than I have ever been in my life 
-—just wallowing in misery — and there isn't a 
single spot where I can go and cry it out in pri- 
vacy. I know it is beastly of me to write all my 
funkiness, but I never can keep anything to my- 
self. Don't go worrying ',bout me ; remember, it 
is going to do me a heap of good and to teach 
me all sorts of valuable lessons. And (be a 
sport!) don't let any of my friends know that I 
can't take my medicine better. I should never 
dare face them again. 

Besides, at the back of my brain, I know it is 
the best thing that could have happened to me. 
There are big chunks of grit in me really; they 
only want dragging forward, and pounding for 
use. As soon as the effect of the inoculation 
wears off I shall be able to cheer up — and I am 

[23] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

ready to bet that before the week is out — that is, 
when I have actually settled down — I shall be 
as happy as the proverbial sand-boy. 

Fondest love, 
Thomasina. 



[24] 



From the Same Place, 
November 16th, 19 17. 
Dearest Peachie, 

It was such a joy to see your own dear fist this 
morning. 

I am rather ashamed of the letter I wrote yes- 
terday; I fear it will have upset you. Please de- 
stroy, and forget it at once. I am beginning to 
get used to this place, although I am still feeling 
a bit rocky. I try to blame the inoculation, but 
that disappointment coming at the same time just 
dented my heart. 

To-day the sun is shining and the front is a 
joy for walking. I went to the baths this morning 
and dabbled about (with one leg out) to my 
heart's content. 

The town is most martial, every street is a pa- 
rade ground, and the whole place rings with 
"Form Fours" and "Company, 'Shun" from morn- 
ing till night. The poor civilians must be fed up. 

I sent you the local illustrated rag yesterday — 1 
thought the pictures might amuse you. 

The advance guard is to be sent to on 

Monday; that is to be the new H.Q. for Overseas 
and this place is to be reserved for Home Service 
W.A.A.C. We had bacon for breakfast yester- 

us] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

day morning — "hot." A garrulous little orderly 
told me that there were over 150 pounds cut up 
for that one meal. Dinner is usually stew — quite 
decent. For every meal we have to "Fall In" in 
ranks or files, then for about fifteen minutes we 
form fours and get into shape before we 
are marched off to feed; ditto when we go to 
hospital for dressings or to lectures. Lectures by 
the Medical Officer on Mondays, Wednesdays, 
and Fridays at three. We are just drawn up for 
it now — and I am finishing off my letter while the 
Roll is being called. It will take quite half an 
hour, for we are three hundred strong in the room. 
Such luck — there is not another of my name in 
the army. 

To-day is pay-day, but there was such a herd 
to settle with that my turn didn't come. 

The lectures are eye-openers to some of these 
girls. The M.O. doesn't mince matters, but goes 
straight to the point, dealing principally with hy- 
giene and personal cleanliness; it is odd that such 
advice should be necessary, but so it is. If the 
W.A.A.C.s do not keep fit, it is their ^n fault, 
for every means of doing so is afforded them; 
even a headache is considered important, and has 
to be reported. 

Oh ! such a topping letter from Colonel S n 

in answer to my telegram. He promises me every 
hospitality whenever I can get to Paris on leave, 
and asks me to keep in touch with him. Wouldn't 
it be ripping if I were sent up the line near G's 

[26] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

section? I understand we are stationed all over 
the place. I am just champing to be on the job. 

No sign of trouble on my leg yet, but Nurse 
tells me the vaccination has taken, and that I 
shall know all about it a little later. I went for 
a route march this morning — six miles — and be- 
fore that I drilled on the old thing, so it ought to 
get up and say things presently. As soon as the 
inflammation appears we have to report for hot 
fomentations, and if we do not, there is a pretty 
howdy do. Well, it shows a nicely developed 
sense of responsibility, what! 

My number has come through from H.Q. The 
next step will be my name on a draft list for sail- 
ing. 

I have heaps more to tell you, but we are get- 
ting a move on, so, 

Bless you, my darling, 

Thomasina. 



[27] 



VI 



From the Same Place, 
November iSth, 19 17. 
Dearest Peachie, 

You are a brick to write me so regularly — 
your letters cheer me immensely. I had five 
altogether this morning, and feel very happy in 
consequence. I had to laugh about the canteen, 
and your amateur attempts at dishwashing. In 
your case it is sheer waste of effort. 

I have been so tossed about, emotionally speak- 
ing, that for the last few days I have thought of 
little save my own small troubles, but now I begin 
to feel myself again, and life, even here, is quite 
tolerable. 

There is little to do but write letters, and so 
I am going to inflict all the people to whom I owe 
a chin-chin. 

Physically, army life is very hardening. We 
live entirely in the open air; windows and doors 
might just as well be nonexistent. We put on all 
the clothes we possess when we get up in the morn- 
ing for "Roll-Call," even to hat and coat, and I 
keep everything on till I go to bed at night. My 
bedroom is on the fourth floor, and I can't be 
bothered to run up continually to leave my cap, 
and it is too cold to discard anything else. We 

[28] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

have fires in four out of the nine recreation rooms, 
but, as I think I have already told you, the com- 
munciating rooms form a sort of corridor, the 
windows of which are always open, so that the 
only chance of thawing oneself is to sit immedi- 
ately in front of one of the said fires. Now you 
can guess the opportunity for doing this — a nice 
little sum for a ready reckoner: 700 girls, 9 rooms, 
4 fires; how many chances are there of one girl 
nearing the blaze in a week? 

The answer is a lemon. My plan is to sit on 
a table, feet and all, and write on my knee. Writ- 
ing in the recreation rooms is a study in the art 
of concentration. The din is positively deafen- 
ing. You may think me some talker. Well ! you 
ought to hear my associates — North-country mill 
girls, munition workers, farm hands, clerks — 
every possible grade of society — all out to be 
heard in every dialect in the Kingdom. Added 
to which there is a piano in one of the rooms, 
and, thanks to our liberal national education, there 

are many who can pick out notes on the d 

thing — so we have all the popular melodies with 
full-throated chorus. Despite this buoyant recrea- 
tion, everybody is as ill as possible part of the 
time, and somebody is ill all the time. It makes 
no difference ; the sick ones endure passively until 
they revive — when they just let it rip and then 
get their own back on the other poor little devils. 
Lordy! What a life! 

The girls are allowed to have visitors in the 

[29] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

reception rooms for a while before supper. You 
ought to see them. The town is full of soldiers, 
hundreds of R.F.C. Cadets, and it is astonishing 
to see how many of them have acquaintances here. 
One of the reception rooms always manages to 
have a broken gas-mantle — these little things will 
happen. 

Meals no longer fill me with loathing. Por- 
ridge for breakfast this morning — and, although 
I ought not to tell you, since I won't eat it at home, 
I fairly gobbled it. It struck me that nothing 
could possibly be over-heating in the present con- 
ditions. I try to fall in for meals with the nicest 
of the girls, but it can't always be managed. 
Yesterday I had to hurry, and found myself with 
a munitioner on my right, a charwoman on my 
left, and two tough little mechanics in front — but 
I didn't even have indigestion. Perhaps I am a 
red tie Socialist after all. One thing, whatever 
the grade or habit of life, all these women are 
really gold at heart. Some nine carat, I grant 
you; some twenty-two; but the precious core is 
there alright — it is simply up to one to tunnel 
through. 

I manage to see a daily paper, and I notice that 
the British line is extended in Flanders and many 
British troops transferred to Italy. I begin to 
understand why they are hurrying our drafts over 
to France. 

When I see you, I will tell you just how far up 

[30] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

the line our girls go ; the cooks and bakeresses are 
in places that would astonish you. 

The girl who sleeps next to me is often on duty 
in the orderly room, and hears all the news; she 
will be able to tell me when my name is on draft, 
also where I am going, which will be rather useful, 
because I shall not be able to mention it in a letter. 

If all goes well, I expect to be sailing to-morrow 
week. In that case I shall apply for twenty-four 
hours' leave, and spend Saturday and Sunday with 
you. The day before sailing has to be spent here, 
as there is a medical and kit inspection, and Lord 
knows what besides. I will wire you as soon as I 
know anything definitely. 

My face appeared in a London paper to-day 
and, such is fame, caused quite a sensation in the 
hostel. Everybody seems to have seen it y with its 
accompanying paragraph — one advantage! there 
is no fear now of my letters being lost. 

It is time to fall in for dinner — so 

My dear love and fond embrace, 

Thomasina. 



[31] 



VII 



From the Same Place, 
November 20th, 19 17. 
Dearest Peachie, 

Drill this morning ("some" fun!) ; then a bath 
(still more fun!) . 

Another lecture from the M.O. this afternoon, 
which makes my third, so I have completed the 
series and shan't have to attend any more. 

The weather is quite decent and not frightfully 
cold, which is good luck, seeing that my uniform 
is not even in sight. The cause of delay is that 
the factories were destroyed a couple of weeks 
ago, and both coat-frocks and overcoats are short 
for a while — and the bales are only just begin- 
ning to come in again. I drew my shoes to-day. 
Help ! Help ! They may be fine for the mud of 
Flanders, but they are truly awful, and, crowning 
ignominy, they are black. I am going to have my 
own brown ones soled and take them with me; I 
must have something presentable for my feet. If 
ever you see a W.A.A.C. girl in decent shoes, 
they are her own. The clothes are pretty bad 
when they are new — fearfully stiff — and take some 
time to discipline the wearer to their shape. But 
they are said to be very warm, and are water- 
proofed. 

[32] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

Did you read the article in the this morn- 
ing about W.A.A.C. life in France? I hope it 
comes somewhere near the truth — especially as 
to the spring mattresses. I cannot make friends 
with iron slats. I know it is ridiculous to grouse 
about trifles, and I hope I shall soon learn some 
sense. I am trying hard. 

I found a library here and have been reading 
Hewlett's Bendish, but I find it distinctly tire- 
some — perhaps I am not in the humour for that 
kind of literature. I am going to hunt for some- 
thing French to-morrow — however dull, it will 
be more useful 

I am so sorry about your eyes. Of course you 
must give up all thought of real hard work — war, 
or other kind. It is not the work that hurts, but 
the conditions under which it is done that tie the 
nerve-strings into knots. I realise that more than 
ever since I have been here. This life would not 
jar at all were it not for the mob. It is not nearly 
so rigorous as that of a nun or a hermit. I am 
convinced that the hermit — the "Homo Sum" kind 
— has a cushier life than appears at the first 
glance. He has solitude. I don't think that that 
same man could be quite so heroic in the army. 
He talks about loving his fellow-man — but, be- 
lieve me, universal love is a dead-easy accomplish- 
ment when you live alone. My hat is off to the 
"Gentleman Ranker" every time; I can about 
gauge his sufferings. 

Did I tell you about our little doctor? She is 

[33] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

a gem — and a martinet. Many of the girls slack 
about going to the hospital for dressings, and have 
jolly bad arms in consequence. My leg is getting 
on alright — taking like wild-fire. It has to be 
dressed every morning; boracic powder, lint, and 
a fresh bandage every day. If it becomes badly 
inflamed, it gets a hot fomentation every two 
hours — simple enough treatment, eh? If ever 
there should be a shortage of boracic powder, I 
imagine the entire war will have to call a halt. 

Except for the daily visits to the doctor and 
one drill, time is filled with waiting. The poor 
souls who have to wait in queues for tea and but- 
ter will be in their element when their turn comes 
to join the W.A.A.C. We wait in files for every- 
thing, and the doctor's file is the worst. No won- 
der the girls funk it. 

I fear I was a little over-sanguine about next 
week-end. My next inoculation will not be till 
Thursday, so probably I shall not be on draft till 
next week. It will depend on my leg. I am told 
that the second jabbing stirs up the vaccination 
place. 

More to-morrow, dear — fondest love, 

Thomasina. 



[34] 



VIII 

From the Same Place, 
November 2 2nd, 19 17. 
Peachie Darling, 

All serene, but very little to report ! The doc- 
tor is still away, so we are not having anything 
done to us. I am beginning to feel better in the 
real of me, and shall be downright hilarious soon. 

It seems a year since I left town, and I am 
just waiting from day to day for all this leg and 
arm business to get well, so that I can get my draft 
leave. I do hope I shall have luck; that seems to 
play the principal in this particular drama. I 
think of you all the time, and "pull thumbs" for 
your health to return to you. 

November 2yrd. 
Interrupted at this point yesterday. Your 
lovely long letter came to cheer me this morning, 
and completely drove out of my head all the snip- 
pets of things I was going to add to the above. 
— Alas ! dear, I am not to be included in the next 
sailing draft (Monday), although my name is on 
the list. On her return, the doctor examined my 
leg, and myself generally, and immediately sent 
somebody over to the Hostel to fetch my kit, and 
here I am in Hospital. I am really having a glo- 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

rious time, resting and lying on (whisper it gently) 
a wire mattress. I was inoculated again this 
morning, and it is a blessing that I can keep still. 
Hospital is lots of fun — a dear little ward, ten 
beds, eight of them full. Heavenly view right out 
to sea. I feel as if I were in the Ritz Hotel; real 
milk in the tea, and thin bread and butter. Oh ! 
but I do feel happy. Only one grievance — no 
smoking allowed. 

It is a gorgeous day. I can see the warships on 
the horizon — it is like being on a big liner ex- 
cept that one is not sea-sick. 

Next Morning. 

Still feeling jolly except for a bit of a head. 
The nurses are perfect dears. They tell me the 
quieter I keep, the sooner I shall be "fit" — so I 
am only just breathing. My little pal, the fore- 
woman clerk, has come in here to-day, and she 
has a bed near mine. We both enjoy the quiet- 
ness, after the boisterous din of the last twelve 
days. I am really wallowing in tranquillity, and 
am no longer at all sorry for myself. Still, I may 
not write much, nor could I even if I had anything 
to say. My "Think Tank" has gone off duty with 
the rest of me. There was a big storm in the 
night, and now the sea is decidedly "uppish." 

I must finish now, for here comes a hot fomen- 
tation — and, "berlieve me," they are hot. 
Affectionately and more, 

Thomasina. 

[36] 



IX 

From the Same Place, 
November 2$th, 19 17. 
Dear Peach, 

Still in bed, and getting awfully bored with my 
leg; beginning to wonder why I ever had one, or 
why, like the lobster, I can't discard this useless 
one and grow another. 

I have read a book a day since I have been in 
hospital — chiefly shelf ornaments of the ward — 
and I cannot remember one of them, excepting 
Ian Hay's A Knight on Wheels. It is really "top 
hole," and Ai for night reading. I am crazy to 
read Mildred Aldrich's new book On the Edge of 
the War Zone. So glad she has sent you a copy, 
as I think you said it was not yet published in 
England. I get The Stage and The Referee, and 
my blessings on the heads of the senders. 

Bless you, darling, for drumming up so many 
correspondents for me. I keep the letters which 
I know are going to be amusing to read while the 
nurse is playing about with my wounds. I will 
answer them all (the letters, not the wounds) 
when I am less of a dull dog. 

A glorious day. I lie here admiring the won- 
derful changes in the sky. If only I were an artist 
instead of a Soldierine, the glimpse I get from 

[37] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

my corner of the ward might help me to earn an 
honest penny by and by. 

My appetite is disgustingly healthy, and I feel 
I am swelling "wisibly." Perhaps providence is 
thus preparing me for my uniform — they are in- 
variably too large when they are not impossibly 

small. Yes, I know I owe A several letters, 

and I must get busy or she will be reminding me 
that I don't write with my leg, but, to own up, 
now that the worst is over, I have been feeling 
a bit rocky for a week past, and your letter was 
about as much as I could manage. It made me 
sick to get your wire this morning and to learn 
that two of the said letters have gone astray. That 
comes of letting other people do your posting. 

Our casualty list increases. We have a sprained 
ankle in the ward now; some poor girl slipped in 
the dark, on her way from kit inspection, the night 
before she should have sailed. It is one thing to 
have your name on draft, but quite another thing 
to get away, as I know to my cost. We have also 
three isolation cases upstairs somewhere, one of 
them a nurse with German measles, so we are 
short staffed. I send you a little drawing of our 
hostels, with the various points of interest marked. 
I thought it might amuse you — you can see how 
we look out upon the world from the top of the 
square, you can also imagine how the soft voices 
of the N.C.O.s get wafted across the gardens. 
The companies "fall in" outside the hostel when 
they go up to mess, and for drill they are simply 

[38] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

all over the place. The broad arrows show the 
short cut to our pet tea-shop, where we get the 
scones and real butter. You should see the girls 
pelt back towards five o'clock so as to be in before 
doors are locked. 

If I behave, I am to get up to-morrow. All 
right, I'll behave. Watch me. 

Fondest love, 

Thomasina. 

P.S. — I apologise for writing all these letters 
in pencil, but my fountain-pen is a dud thing. 
What it really needs is a nurse-maid. 



[39] 



From the Same Place, 
November 2<)th } 19 17. 
Dearest Peachie, 

Hoo— jolly — ray! I am out of bed at last! I 
have even been for a crawl round the houses. It 
was a lovely day, and I felt glad to be alive. My 
walk lamed me a great deal, so I suppose it will 
be bed again to-morrow. . . . But I don't care — 
the change was worth the risk. 

If I were not feeling so cheery I should thor- 
oughly strafe the Army. What do you think has 
happened now? A new order has just come 
through that all girls going on to the new Hostel 

at must wait for their uniforms till they 

get there. Isn't it exasperating? Of course that 
means Monday before I can get my toggery — and 
no week-end leave. All the Overseas girls have 
to move on to the new place on Saturday I hear. 
Just as soon as I cease to be a cripple I am afraid 
they will push me across the ripple. When I say 
"afraid," I mean that I may get no leave at all 
— owing to this "Whist drive" along the coast. 

Really I am aching to get over yonder, and 
am so fed up with this idle life. It is positively 
demoralising. You see, I have never grown ac- 
customed to having nothing to do — even when I 

[40] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

was laid up with a sprained ankle I managed to 
keep my hands busy. Your constant wail during 
your long illness, "If only I could do something," 
finds a sympathetic ear these days. I am still in 
hospital — because of dressings, also because the 
steep, endless stairs of the Hostel are more than 
I can manage at present. Excitement runs high 
concerning our new coast quarters. They must 
be better than these — for the simple reason that 
they could hardly be worse. Had a letter from 
"B" to-day, and the dear thing sent me an air- 
cushion. I tell you I am "some" spoilt child. Did 
I tell you that we have to address our officers as 
"Ma'am"? "No, Ma'am." "Yes, Ma'am." A 
form which I thought belonged exclusively to 
Americans, except when speaking to Royalty. 

So awfully distressed to hear little man doggie 
is ill. Precious lamb! Does he have to wear a 
flannel undercoat like poor "Binkie" did? Will 
send my new address as soon as I get it. Hope we 
are not marched off before letter time in the 
morning. 

Fondest love, 

Thomasina. 



[4i] 



XI 



From Somewhere Else on the Coast, 
December 2nd, 19 17. 
Peachie Darling, 

Well! Here we are in our new quarters, and 
I would give my week's pay (Quelle opulence/) 
could you see the place. It is really a tax on 
my descriptive powers. Of all the anomalies ! 
Picture to yourself any first-class, large hotel, the 
Savoy for instance, shorn of its trimmings, but 
revealing all its handsome decorations. Tapestry 
panels partly concealed by holland sheets, carpets 
rolled up and sewn into sacking covers, leaving 
bare, glistening parquet floors. Handsome elec- 
troliers, beautiful ceilings and columns, and whole 
slabs of veined marble; here and there fixed, up- 
holstered settees covered with oriental rugs. And 
then, planted everywhere, rough deal tables and 
common chairs. Imagine the mess hall, which 
was the dining-room of "effete civilisation," with 
its giant pillars and gilt decorations, filled with 
wooden benches and tables, on which are laid 
masses of common pewter cutlery. In place of 
the erstwhile gentle, conversational hum is a per- 
fect Bedlam of uncouth sound, and, above, the 
Musicians' Gallery grins vacantly down at us. The 
Palm Court and the Lounge are our recreation 

[42] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

rooms — see the army shoes dancing on those once 
carefully polished floors. 

The preparations for transforming the place 
into a hostel are not quite finished, hence the vivid 
contrast. Hotel furnishings lie about in bales, 
looking very sad and sorry. Some small aristo- 
cratic gilt chairs have convened an indignation 
meeting in a corner, and, with their backs turned 
to the rabble (us), are threshing the whole mat- 
ter out. I sat on a roll of rugs for a minute this 
morning, but I distinctly felt it turn, so I arose 
and apologised. Of course, compared with the 
place we have left, this is a real hostel, and very 
comfy. The companies can now be quartered one 
on each floor. The hospital has a wing to itself. 
The Quartermaster's stores has the basement. 
All the elevators are "out of bounds, " but the 
bath-rooms are splendid — and plenty of them. I 
had a boiling hot tub this morning, got up before 
reveille for it, and it was worth the effort. 

By this time you will have guessed that I am 
no longer an invalid. I travelled with the hos- 
pital cases, but on reporting here I was promptly 
discharged. So, once again, I take my place in 
the ranks, and now have to readjust my view- 
point. It became sadly civilian while I was laid 
up ; that is why the sight of this hotel, so obviously 
out of tune with the times, poor thing! gave me 
such a shock. I remember lunching here when I 
was playing in the town, a year or two ago, and 
now its present condition, neither civil nor mili- 

[43] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

tary, seems to correspond exactly to my own, for 
the transition process is still at work. 

It is good to be practically well again, and al- 
though I am not "fighting fit" yet, I can walk 
without risking inflammation, so I shall be able 
to drill once more, and, in my free time, take some 
walking exercise, for which I pine. This town, 
always the least objectionable of our seaside 
places, looks much the same as ever, and the 
weather is fine. Before I forget it, remember that 
I am now "Company C." Up to now I am not 
well known here, as we did not bring all our own 
officers with us. I shall rush up to town as soon 
as I have my uniform — shall probably not have 
time to let you know I am coming, but I promise 
to convey the awful warning by telephone just as 
soon as I reach the London terminus. 

Fondest love, dearest, 

Thomasina. 



[44] 



XII 



From the Same Place, 
December 6th, 19 17. 
Dearest Peachie, 

Got back alright from my few hours' draft 
leave. Trudging from the station to the hostel 
in the pitch darkness was perilous though unevent- 
ful. Perhaps I wasn't dog tired! 

Oh! but I am an excited child this morning, 
and I have only a few moments to dash off my 
last good-bye to you. We are off to u Furrin" 
parts this afternoon — we leave here at three — 
boat sails at four. I had to report to the doc- 
tor as late as 9.30 this morning — but, hurray! 
She has passed me at last. 

We had a splendid and unexpected concert last 
night. I had turned in early intending to get a 
good night's rest — my sleep has been so choppy 
lately. Imagine my disgust when, after what 
seemed five minutes' slumber, I was aroused by 
a loud voice in the passage (we sleep on the 
fourth floor), "Fall in with warm clothing out- 
side your doors." I bundled into my shoes and 
great-coat over my pyjamas — God bless the army 
coats, they are warm ! — and we all filed down to 
the ground floor. It was 2.30 a.m. when we lined 
up in the passage of the main building. Pres- 

[45] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

ently we all sat on the floor, and to drown the 
racket going on outside, popular ballads were 
started; a piano appeared mysteriously from 
somewhere, and we had a ripping old time. Of 
course all the officers were with us, looking very 
pretty en deshabille. Officers have dressing- 
gowns — their kit is evidently more capacious than 
ours — and you should have seen the little doctor 
in a pink crepe-de-chine kimono. She did look 
saucy. After about an hour word was passed 
down the line. A.! A.! Doctor wants you!" 
I scrambled up and presented myself. Thought 
I — probably she wants to amuse herself by look- 
ing at my vaccinated leg. But no — it was, "Now 
then, A., give us a recitation to cheer us up." So 
I started in with "Grandma"; that is always a 
star piece. It was greeted with yells, and then 
my Company Commander cried out, "Carry on, 
A." So I let loose, and for one solid hour poured 
out my prize pieces, including some of the orig- 
inals that you have written for me. 

Well ! I have done stunts in many odd places, 
but never before have I recited in a long narrow 
corridor in the hall to several hundreds of listen- 
ers who could not see me. It was a beautiful ex- 
perience to me, and they did love it all. The 
officers were great sports; they sang and told 
stories with the rest and, by and by, when the 
enemy merry making outside had slackened down, 
we had a roll-call. When in doubt, and there are 
a few minutes to spare, we always have a roll- 

[46] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

call. The noise competition inside and out did 
not cease till after six, and it was seven before 
the all-clear came through on the 'phone — then 
we dressed and went down to breakfast. The 
officers are awfully bucked about the way the night 

was passed, and dear old R made a speech 

at brekker, throwing a lot of verbal bouquets at 
us. Oh! you should have seen her in the night, 
in her "British Warm" and a foot of nightgown 
showing below. Most of the officers wear 
pyjamas, and I begin to see the point — they cer- 
tainly do look better under a great-coat. 

Early closing yesterday, and I could not get 
my longed-for shampoo, so I determined to try 
for it this morning. On the doormat I ran against 
our Second-in-Command. She beamed kindly on 
me, and told me to go to bed and get some rest; 
but instead I made a bolt for the town, and had 
a hair wash and a wave for luck. 

The doctor nearly broke me up to-day. She 
was too sweet; before the whole surgery full she 
smiled, shook hands with me, thanked me for my 
entertainment last night, said, "Good-bye and 
good luck." I wanted to weep on her shoulder. 
People simply must not be kind to me — I can't 
bear it. 

Now I haven't another second, so I must close. 

Good-bye, darling, and God bless you! 

Thomasina. 



[47] 



XIII 

From Somewhere in France, 
December 7th, 19 17. 
Dearest Peachie, 

Behold me in France at last — still excited. 

To follow on from my last. We fell in at the 

hostel, and Miss R came to see us line up — 

to make sure we were all in order and not eating 
sweets on the march. Two or three were, and 
they had to falL out and march at the double be- 
fore we could start. We had a lovely send-off. 
It appears we were the first draft to sail from 
that particular place, and the townfolk cheered 
us en route. Groups of soldiers in the rest camps 
whistled, "If you were the Only Girl," and the 
devils have a wicked knack of just getting the 
beat to come between our steps — so as to throw 
us out of step if possible. Scores of our girls 
came down to the quay, and ran after us, cheer- 
ing, right up to the barricade. Girls I hardly 
knew by sight screamed after me, much to the 
amusement of the crowd. 

Our crossing was uneventful, smooth, and very 
quick — of course the ship was full of khaki — and 
I began to feel a soldier at last when we fell in 
behind the boys with haversacks on our backs and 
pay-books in our pockets. I tried to get some 

[48] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

sleep on the boat, but it was no time before I 
heard that we were there. Coming on deck, I 
had my doubts. I felt some one had played a 
trick on us, and turned the boat round, for the 
first thing that caught my eye on the dock was 
"Notice Board" and other signs printed in Eng- 
lish — English soldiers everywhere and only Eng- 
lish being spoken. 

The night was a great experience. Peach, 
have you ever slept on the floor? Mind you! 
I say slept. I bet you haven't, and I am one up 
on you. We spent the night in a hut — with ta- 
bles down the centre and army mattresses down 
the sides. Golly! but we were hungry, and the 
rations were good. After supper we found the 
washing-room; then partly undressed and rolled 
ourselves up in the army blankets. Some of the 
girls said these were damp — but I am not dead 
yet. After the previous night's experience I 
could have slept standing, but I did whisper a 
prayer that there would be no disturbing raid. I 
must suddenly have become one of the just, for 
the prayer was answered. 

We had brekker at six this morning, and then 
dispersed in different directions. I entrained 
with a few others, and arrived here in a very 
few hours. Imagine my amazement on being met 
at the station by two W.A.A.C.s who were quar- 
tered at my first hostel. On reaching the camp 
they all made me very welcome, and I was glad 

[49] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

to be able to bring them the latest news of the 
home hostels. 

We are not allowed to be very explicit in our 
correspondence, so I cannot tell you my where- 
abouts. Suffice it that I am in a camp and quite 
comfy. I share a cubicle in a hut with one other 
— it is a treat to get away from the crowded 
rooms I have occupied lately. 

To-day I have been taken round the town and 
shown the points of interest — the canteen, the 
offices, and the little gem of a cathedral. I am 
told it is quite an honour to be sent to these 
quarters. I am full of appreciation. 

I think I am going to be very happy as far 
as the camp is concerned, although it is the sim- 
ple life with a vengeance. I hope I shall be able 
to make good in my work, and I intend to try 
hard. If my King and Country want me, they 
shall certainly have the best of me. 

I am sorry that I was so haughty about the 
flashlight you offered me. I certainly should like 
one. You see, we feed in one hut, wash in an- 
other, and so on — and creeping from place to 
place in the dark is perilous to a short-sighted 
child. So when you bound from your bed into 
your tub with one stride, think of your wee one, 
and lighten her darkness, I beseech thee, O 
Love! 

I shall try and send you more to-morrow — of 
course I am thinking of you all the time as you 
are of me, but I am not a misery any longer, so 

[50] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

you must just visualise me as a happy little soul. 
I am very lucky to have fallen amongst ready 
made friends instead of having to pave my way 
into people's good graces. 

There is to be a house warming on Sunday, and 
I am in the bill to do stunts, so you see it is up 
to me to get on — or not; and you know my deci- 
sion on that point. 

My love to everybody who asks after me, and 
a remembrance even for those who don't. 

Kiss the doggie boy for me — I hope he is 
better. 

My very fondest to you — as ever, 

Thomasina. 



[5i] 



XIV 

From Somewhere in France, 
December 8th, 19 17. 
Dearest Peachie, 

I saw a London newspaper this morning — at 
least the Continental edition of one — and read 
about the excitement of the other night. I gather 
that you had a fierce time; hope there was not 
much damage done. 

Was introduced to the office this morning, and 
spent several hours being instructed by a most 
amiable Sergeant-major. I am the only W.A.A.C. 
in that particular office — there will probably be 
a few more later on, as soon as they are ready 
to be sent over. I am told that no comment will 
be made on my work for a fortnight! So I need 
not get scared — there are very few things I can- 
not get a general hang of in that time, working 
daily, Sundays included, and nothing else to oc- 
cupy my mind. 

Of course I cannot tell you anything about my 
work — I mean the details — but I think it is go- 
ing to be quite interesting, and I shall be han- 
dling plenty of French stuff. I was first taken 
to the Major, who looked me over in a "What 
have we got here" sort of fashion, and then 
handed me a letter in French, and asked could I 

[52] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

read it. I glanced at it, and said I could, and 
that moreover I could understand it. He laughed 
—and proceeded to business. 

Weather wet and slushy, but quite bearable. 
We have fires in our Mess Hut and Recreation 
Hut, those funny little German stoves, with the 
long pipe leading up and out through the wall. 
We burn wood — mostly green — but we manage. 
The camp cooks are excellent, and the food tastes 
much better than it did in the other places. I 
have overcome my dislike to sleeping in blankets. 
I just swathe myself in my rug — mummy fashion 
— then three army blankets, double, go on top of 
me. 

We have a wee black kitten in the camp, a wel- 
come gift from some soldiers; the Rec. Hut is 
adorned with mistletoe — from the same source 
probably. 

Everybody is on duty at different hours and 
in different places, so we do not have any drills. 
There is an occasional route march for exercise. 
For the rest, we can take plenty of walks in our 
free time. I am still a bit hoppity-hop, but I 
shall enjoy a leg stretch later on. 

December 10th. 
Left off here the day before yesterday to get 
back to the office — fifteen minutes ahead of time 
— such is zeal! 

Don't be alarmed, it won't last. I shall soon 
be eligible for an N.C. badge — "No Consience." 

[S3] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

I ought to have put another c in that conscience, 
but my ink is running low, so I am economising. 

By the way — have you got an "Ink Card" yet? 

I might have written yesterday, but I filled in 
my free hour in the afternoon giving a hand with 
the preparations for the Beano in the evening. 
We had the hut filled; each girl had a pass for 
one friend (boy o' course), and they all had a 
great time. The usual turns at the concert — we 
are rather short of sheet music, so we have to 
fall back on the old favourites and make up with 
stories and recitations. I turned on a few with 
success. It is an odd thing that I am never able 
to speak the last verse of that recitation "The 
New House that Jack Built." It is evidently an 
anti-climax — the applause always comes after the 
penultimate verse, so I shut up, and let it go at 
that. When you get a brain wave, do send me 
something new to learn; I have endless oppor- 
tunities for digging up my entire repertoire, and 
we are here "for the Duration." 

Fondest love, 

Thomasina. 



[54] 



XV 



From Somewhere in France, 
December nth, 19 17. 
Peachie Darling, 

I fear I shall not be able to write you quite 
so frequently from this time on. You see, I put 
in seven hours a day at the office, starting at 8.30. 
I have a couple of hours off at dinner-time, an 
hour for tea, and I am off for "keeps" at 7.45 
p.m. But I have to come back to camp for meals, 
and those free hours seem like so many minutes. 
In camp life all the little footling things, such as 
cleaning shoes, mending clothes, grooming, etc., 
are all a question of opportunity, and have to be 
fitted in whenever there is a free moment — and 
these things are hardly interesting to set down on 
paper. Also, there is a great deal that may not 
be mentioned, in fact the answers to all the ques- 
tions I can imagine you asking are taboo — espe- 
cially anything concerning my work. At present 
I am learning the intricacies of clerking, and I have 
a quantity of French matter to deal with. There 
seems to be a great demand for French-speaking 
clerks. The other girls who were to come to 
the office have not yet arrived. However, I am 
quite comfortable by my lones. The Sergeant- 
major under whom I work is a very decent sort, 

[55] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

and the other two are quite alright. The girls 
here are all clerks, and really very jolly, and, 
as I said before, we have topping cooks — so 
"Why row?" 

Is doggie boy well enough to go back to his 
rations? — and are there any rations for him to 
go back to? Well! shake his paw for me. My 
love to everybody. I am very fit — eat well, sleep 
well, and am as happy as any one can be till the 
war is over. 

Fondest love, 

Thomasina. 



[56] 



XVI 

From Somewhere in France, 
December iph, 19 17. 
Dear Peachie, 

It did seem strange getting that dictated, typed 
letter from you, but it was news, and just what 
I was panting for. I shall be much more happy 
to see your own fist. I really forget if I did write 
that Wednesday before sailing. I must in fu- 
ture make a note of all letters despatched — any- 
how, that is likely to become a habit with me, 
because I spend most of my working time regis- 
tering correspondence. 

Much relieved to know that my scribbles from 
here go off promptly. There was a rumour in 
the camp that the Administrator was a bit slack 
in censoring, and that outgoing letters were de- 
layed in consequence, but the dear soul has evi- 
dently been maligned. By the way, I suppose 
you have realised, from the slightly different style 
of yours truly, that all letters are read by the 
Camp Administrator? This knowledge gives me 
a sort of rheumatism of the pen — it works stiffly, 
and recalls my Continental school-days; but I 
shall soon forget about it, even as I did in those 
days, when I was wont to draw caricatures of the 
scholastic censor herself. 

[57] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

These green envelopes are issued to us — one 
per fortnight. They are never opened by our 
camp officials, but are liable to be censored at the 
base. They seem to be greatly prized, and their 
value, in the swapping line, is very high. One 
envelope seems to be worth a smoke or a candle, 
and sometimes it will purchase chocolates — in 
fact, in the way of demand they come only sec- 
ond to matches. The latter, as barter, top the 
list. Yesterday I heard some one offer two cas- 
caras for one match. You see, having no money 
worth mentioning, we perforce must deal in kind. 

Excitement for the moment is centred on the 
Christmas festivities. We are clubbing together 
(real cash for this) to buy a real Christmas din- 
ner. I think it will include turkeys — they range 
from 30 francs "up." Ours are sure to be very 
"uppish." We are also going to make a Christ- 
mas pudding of some kind that we can stir. We 
are trying to think of some "charms" to throw 
in. These are not known in France. Of course 
it will only be a "makebelieve" sort of pudding — 
we receive half a pound of the real kind in our 
rations. But it is the preparation, and the stir- 
ring that we want, just to pretend that we are 
home in England — and that it is Peace-time. 

We are going to have both red and white wine, 
and I have been detailed off to procure some 
sherry for the "trifle," and some kind of spirit — ■ 
probably rum — to light the pudding. I am go- 
ing to wangle the Sergeant-major in my office 

[58] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

m regard to these little matters. I opened the 
subject of the spirit for lighting the pudding this 
morning, and he asked me if petrol would do. 
We are going to follow the feast with a concert 
and dance among ourselves, and if it is a success, 
we shall repeat the entertainment before a mixed 
audience later. I have been elected to the amuse- 
ment committee. On the whole, we shall make 
merry as well as place and circumstances permit. 

But how fervently I pray — down in heart of 
me — that next Christmas may see us all out of the 
wood. 

We dance in our recreation hut every night 
after supper till "lights out," and go to bed nice 
and warm by candle-light. 

"Lights Out" means that the engine stops and 
the electric light fades, but we may generally burn 
a candle for a little while longer, especially if our 
N.C.O. is dancing with us. You will see by the 
foregoing that I am getting quite accustomed to 
camp life- — but don't think that I omit my nightly 
dab into the cuticle cream and skin food. Lawks 
o' Dayses! What a good "Ad" for that par- 
ticular Cream Co. if they knew where their stuff 
was being used — it is good and cleansing, and 
may save my poor skin from splitting later on. 
We have a rain-water butt, which is pleasing, but 
I am told it freezes on the least provocation. 

I am enjoying the luxury of solitude in my sleep- 
ing quarters just now — the girl who was sharing 
my cubicle has been moved on, as there was a 

[59] 



The Letters of Thomasina * Atkins 

vacancy for her after all. There is a great de- 
mand for girls who have a real knowledge of 
French — especially typists and short-hand clerks. 
The trouble is that our English typists, etc., are 
not, as a rule, very ambitious. They seem to learn 
just enough to enable them to struggle through 
their job, but will not go out of their way to ac- 
quire extra accomplishments in connection with 
their work. Of course they were not to know 
there was going to be a war that would need such 
work; then, again, these girl clerks can get such 
good jobs at home in England, that camp life in 
France, in winter, and army pay do not offer suffi- 
cient inducement. It is a pity in a way, for they 
might learn much that every girl needs to know, 
and only the girls can release the men. 

Well, dear, this is Chin Chin enough for now 
— and, By my Halidame, methinks it were time 
I hied me yonder to my task chamber. 

Always your affectionate 

Thomasina. 



[60] 



XVII 

From Somewhere in France, 
December 14th, 1917. 
Peachie Dear, 

Thanks awfully for the Stage, which I de- 
voured at lunch time. (Yes, I had my rations 
also.) The only outside amusement this town 
offers are the Moving Pictures, and an occasional 
concert by the travelling concert parties. I see 
some mention in the Referee of travelling the- 
atrical companies, and I am pulling thumbs that 
they may wander down our alley one day. 

I am collecting W.A.A.C. literature — scraps of 
verse, parodies on popular poems, airs, etc. Some 
are quite humorous, though of course very 
"shoppy" — but worth saving as souvenirs. 

Every regiment in the British Army has its own 
particular lyric to the tune of "Greenland's Icy 
Mountains. " Some are just a trifle off — some are 
quite unprintable. Ours is very tame: 

We are the Women's Army — 

The W.A.A.C.; 
We cannot shoot, we cannot fight — 

What earthly use are we? 

But when we march to Potsdam, 
The Kaiser he will say, 

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The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

"Hoch! Hoch! Mein Gott, what a 

jolly fine lot 
Are the W.A.A.C." 

We have an unusually obliging household staff 
in our camp, which adds considerably to the gen- 
eral comfort. I have already mentioned the ex- 
cellence of the cooking — did I add that our food 
is served on piping hot plates? They (the staff) 
wear the same uniform as myself when off duty, 
except that their shoulder-straps have a strip 
of scarlet where mine are solid brown. Our 
N.C.O.s also have brown straps, but cream- 
coloured collars and an embroidered badge on the 
right upper arm. The gardeners have purple 
shoulder-straps — and they look very smart. 
Household staff comprises cooks, waitresses, par- 
lourmaids, general laundresses, bakeresses, etc., 
but when they have their great-coats on, they 
might be clerks. Officers wear tunics and skirts, 
with shirt and tie — regular "nuts." Their rank 
is denoted by a Tudor rose button on the shoul- 
der-strap which is orange or crimson. There 
seems to be no restriction as to their overcoats 
or trench coats, and some of them are very swag- 
ger. Our officer here is a dear, quite young, and 
very pretty — such lovely colouring that I am con- 
sumed with envy. 

I want to trim my hut a bit, so please send 
me a few of my old prints, and "Art" designs. 
My aesthetic eye yearns for something to break 
the dour monotony of these walls. I have paid 

[62] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

a visit to the canteen just to find out how one 
spends money here, on the rare occasions when 
one has any. The fashionable investment seems 
to be a pot of marmalade or jam — to have on the 
side for breakfast or tea ; but I don't fall in with 
the idea, since we have both served in our 
rations on several days of the week. We are 
rationed the same as the soldiers (perhaps a slight 
percentage less), and really quite enough to keep 
us healthily alive. Open-air life makes for large 
appetites, and there would be little use for a 
vermouth sec even if we W.A.A.C.s were not 
"Blue Ribbonites." The order of total abstinence 
does not extend to the Sergeants' Mess, and — 
break it gently to A. — I am told that both Bass 
and Guinness are obtainable. 

I was surprised at the high rate of exchange 
here. In the canteen a £i note is worth 27 fr. 25, 
and 105. in silver will fetch 13 fr. 60. A certain 
expensive brand of cigarettes can be bought for 
seven francs per hundred, so the injunction, 
"Don't send tobacco to the troops," is easily 
understood. 

This is market day in town, so we have had 
pigs squealing all the morning, and all the other 
beasties are making their own pet noises. Prowl- 
ing round the town, I was reminded of Soho. 
This is a typical little French town. You went 
through scores of them on your bicycle tour over 
here. We have plenty of army traffic in the 
streets — and some troops. 

[63] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

A couple of days ago a man came into the office 
to call on his chums. He was straight from the 
last push, and brought all his mud with him; he 
used to work here, but left six weeks ago for his 
probationary term in the trenches before taking 
his commission. Having returned all in one piece, 
he now goes to England for a month's leave, then 
three months in a cadet school, another month's 
leave, then out here again as an officer and a 
gentleman. 

The man whose desk I occupy is now in the 
trenches doing the same stunt. I hope he will 
have the same good luck. So you see, there is 
no mistake about my taking a man's place; I even 
know his name, and am progressing fairly well 
with his job. When I think of this, I begin to 
laugh at the bare idea of a commission. As an 
officer in the W.A.A.C. s I should certainly be a 
little more comfortable (not so much in camp), 
but I should not be doing a man's work, only 
looking after the girls who did. 

The Sergeant-major under whom I am work- 
ing is really very lenient, but possibly that is be- 
cause I am the only W.A.A.C. in the office. The 
Chief is away on leave, and I hear very noble 
accounts of him. His son bobbed into the office 
this morning to u ask the time," much to the 
amusement of the N.C.O.s They told me he 
wanted to see what the Governor's W.A.A.C. 
looked like. Poor boy! I fear he had a shock. 
I was so little impressed by the entrance of a 

[64] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

baby sub. that I even forgot to stand to atten- 
tion. Unlike the shorthand clerks, I seldom see 
an officer, and if I ever meet any of my old friends, 
it will be an awful moment. Imagine my having 
to get a permit to speak to boy H. for instance ! 
Possibly he'd swoon before I did. 

God bless you, dear, 

As ever, 

Thomasina. 
P.S. — I am glad I joined the army. 



[65] 



XVIII 

From Somewhere in France, 
December 16th, 19 17. 
Dearest Peachie, 

Having reread your last, I see that I did not 
answer it fully. You are quite right — that scar 
under my chin is a vaccination mark, and as such 
is registered on my identification card. I always 
said I had never been vaccinated, because the 
assault referred to happened when I was three 
days old. That is a long time ago, and I have 
never been mutilated since till recently. By the 
way, I am just beginning to lose my limp, and to 
walk with a sense of freedom; it is good to get 
rid of that old bandage. I feel as if I had been 
here for ages, and am settling down at a great 
rate. Both work and camp life follow a pretty 
even routine, and leave little time or material for 
gossip. 

I had an interesting experience yesterday — vis- 
ited a sugar factory, went over the whole plant, 
and saw the beets trundled in and jerked about 
until they came out as beautiful white granulated 
sugar. When I saw the men standing in it and 
shovelling it into sacks with spades, I felt I never 
wanted to taste sugar again. It was an uncanny 
spectacle — these millions of white beets (they are 

[66] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

white, you know) being tossed about by the ma- 
chine, squirming for all the world like huge 
cheese mites. Oh! Ga-ga! Then the sight of 
the huge sacks standing in their hundreds im- 
mediately sent my thoughts back to Blighty and 
the queues. There is always plenty of the thing 
one wants — somewhere. 

Do flatter, bribe, or otherwise corrupt that op- 
tician in regard to my glasses. I dare not tackle 
my unaccustomed job without them, and those 
I have make me look like the pictures of Mother 
Siegel of Syrup fame. Also they worry me, be- 
cause I see all round the rims. Well! C 'est la 
guerre, I suppose. 

Many, many thanks for the parcel — the torch 
is a beauty, and fills the bill absolutely. The 
caramels are quite a treat. I am munching them 
at this moment. Either my flapper days are 
catching me up, or my second childhood is upon 
me. Truly I feel like Mrs. Methuselah — by the 
way, was there a Mrs. Methuselah? Probably 
there were so many of her that she wasn't 
thought worthy of mention. Well, I feel like 
the combination of them all when I look round 
the camp. Most of my comrades in arms are 
much younger than myself — even in years — and I 
only just remember the Diamond Jubilee. Which 
all goes to prove that it isn't time itself that 
counts on this little Merry-go-round, but the man- 
ner in which we occupy it — or, as the coach-driver 
said, "Lord love yer! 'Tain't the stretch that 

[67] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

tells, but the 'ammer, 'ammer, 'ammer on the 'ard 
'igh road." 

No, darling, be not afraid, I don't do any Arith- 
metic, but a great deal of writing. Also, I have 
to memorise a few score of numbers. Luckily 
this is not difficult for me; there are, how- 
ever, parts of my job which are somewhat stiff, 
and I have my moments of wuzzyness. 

The snow is upon us with a vengeance; it 
started on Sunday afternoon (I was out for a 
long walk in the frost), and this morning there 
were some pretty Christmas-card effects. The 
camp looked a treat, the huts are of corrugated 
iron, with little pathways between, grouped round 
a square of "lawn." This morning a thaw started 
— and, oh! the slush in the town — "some" mud! 
Of mud we do not allow ourselves to talk. If 
we did (such is its quality and its quantity), it 
would form the only topic of conversation. The 
huts are still white, and as I came "home" to tea 
to-night the camp in the distance was a pretty 
sight — with the evening star and the new moon 
hovering. I am constantly wondering at the sky; 
I never realised that there was so much of it. In 
a city one quite overlooks it; there is so much 
to attract one's attention. 

I am writing under difficulties. There is an 
awful din going on — I think the Christmas feed 
is under discussion. I will try to write again to- 
morrow. If I have luck, I may have a slack mo- 
ment at the office — it is quiet there. Anyhow, 

[68] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

I shall be leaving work early — the Sergeant- 
major is going to the pictures. He has even in- 
vited me to go with him. Uncommon civil, I call 
it, so don't laugh. 

Bye-bye, Beloved, 
Always yours, 

Thomasina. 



[69] 



XIX 

From Somewhere in France, 
December 20th, 19 17. 
Peachie Darling, 

Yours of the 16th has just rolled in. Cour- 
age, dear; don't be downhearted. The whole 
blame business must come to an end sometime; 
but I know how hard it is for you to carry on — 1 
harder in some respects than for me. I am writ- 
ing rather against time, but I realise (from the 
almanac) that Christmas is upon us, that it is 
also your birthday, and that the mails will be get- 
ting delayed. Of course it is not really Christ- 
mas, nor birthday, nor anything else, but still, 
in spite of war, I wish I were with you. Even 
my little intended surprise has gone agley, and 
will not be ready till early in the New Year. No, 
indeed, it is not really Christmas! Never mind, 
wait till I get my leave. 

Meanwhile the only thought I have now is 
Cold. The frost is upon us, and, following on 
the recent heavy snowfall, it is indeed winter. I 
wish I had a thermometer; it would be interest- 
ing to see just where the mercury would stand in- 
side the hut. My sponge is a rock, my tooth- 
brush ditto. My fountain-pen was frozen inside 
my suit-case. As I stood before my mirror to 

[70] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

brush my hair, a sheet of ice formed over it — 
just my breath. Of course all water has been 
turned off at the main to prevent the pipes from 
bursting, so washing, for the time being, is out 
of the question. The drinking-tank — not yet 
ready for winter use — had not been encased in 
straw, and the whole thing is a solid rock. We 
have had no drinking-water for two days. The 
poor kitchen staff have to drop a bucket down 
the well (pumps are frozen) to get enough water 
for the cooking. I remember reading Shackle- 
ton's Diary of his expedition to the Pole; he has 
my sympathy. The streets are a joke. You see 
the snow settled between the cobbles, then the 
whole surface froze, and the only way to get along 
is to shuffle, and dodge the cart ruts. The moon 
comes up bright and hard every night, and just 
looks cruel. I am wearing every garment I pos- 
sess — and if the kitchen range were portable, 
we should probably draw lots as to who should 
steal it for a sort of haversack. My voluble 
utterance is somewhat familiar to you. Think 
of the possibility of my spoken words freez- 
ing in a long solid, knotty string on their 
way to my listener's ear. Bed is quite cosy — 
army blankets are fine. I tuck mine close round 
my face, and when I wake in the morning there 
is a fringe of icicles along the ridges — more 
frozen breath. We have good fires in the Mess 
and Recreation huts, but the office is the only place 

[71] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

where one can thaw — plenty of coal there. I 
have discovered that Staff Sergeant-majors insist 
on being comfortable, and small blame to them. 
I had a long afternoon off yesterday, but I was 
too cold to think, let alone write — so I decided 
to walk. It was a wonderful day — of the kind. 
I just plodded on and on, the roads were not so 
bad, but I struck across country to return, and 
on top of the hill I came across the drifts, eight 
and ten feet deep, and in most places not a trace 
of a pathway. I tumbled across ploughed fields, 
like rocks covered with seaweed, until I finally 
reached the camp wet to the waist, but thoroughly 
happy. 

Work has been a bit slack for a day or two; 
probably the mails are held up by the elements, 
and that means a rush later on. 

The chief excitement of the week has been the 
children's treat to-day, organized by the officers 
for the kiddies of the town — about 550 of them. 
You know the sort of thing — some films, a jug- 
gler, and a few tableaux, "The Three Wise Men," 
and so on. Some one had a bright idea. Why 
not introduce a W.A.A.C. into the scheme? So 
our Administrator entrusted me with the honour 
of representing the Corps, and I have been re- 
hearsing at odd moments all the week. I was 
draped in pieces of Oriental stuff, wore a blue 
and gold veil, and carried a brass vase; then I 
executed a few stunts, a la Maud Allan, but with 
many more clothes — tres gracieux! There was 

[72] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

special music written for this, and it proved a 
succes foul It is to be repeated at the G.H.Q. 

Eshelon to-morrow — a short ride from 

here. After the tableaux the children's gifts were 
distributed. I made the presentations to the girls, 
and never have I realised what hard work that 
easy-looking job really is. There were some tiny 
mites among the crowd, and oh! but they did 
enjoy themselves. The presents all came from 
Paris, and were topping; terrible suspense yester- 
day when we heard the lorry had left Paris three 
days ago, and had got stuck en route — the blessed 
thing was snowed in and frozen over! ! ! How it 
was got out and hustled along, the Lord only 
knows, and He isn't telling. But it slid in this 
morning, and every one turned to the job of un- 
packing, and wrapping up. It was a great day. 

Well, dear, these simple little incidents are all 
I have to relate just now. They seem very im- 
portant events to us exiles. 

I am not going to wish you Many Happy Re- 
turns of this birthday — but, since prayer is u The 
soul's sincere desire," I am praying that it is the 
least happy of those to come. 

Good night, and God bless you, 

Thomasina. 



[73] 



XX 



From Somewhere in France, 
December i6th } 1917. 
Dear Peachie, 

Your lovely long letter greeted me on my re- 
turn for lunch. It is good news that you are 
going away for a couple of days. I am very 
bucked about it, because it assures me that you 
are feeling a bit more fit. Yes, I received the 
forwarded letter from E. To any outsider it was 
a kind and sweet little note, but, the context con- 
sidered, it did make the fur stand up on my spine. 
Hypocrisy is the most noxious weed that ever 
took root in the human mind — it has a way of 
looking so flowerlike that one goes on plucking 
and plucking till the poison sting is felt, and then 
one seizes the only possible antidote — forgetful- 
ness. 

Don't let any one say "Auld Lang Syne" to me ! 
Why should we carry about with us, for ever, all 
the past eruptions of our lives? When a wound 
heals, a new skin grows (quite as tender, alas!) ; 
so I am with the great poet, who said, "Let the 
dead Past bury its dead." Memory is the one 
really hurtful thing. 

I shall be interested to learn if Mrs. L. fol- 
lows out her intention — but do remind her that 

[74] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

the W.A.A.C. is the blooming army, and the way 
in is fairly easy, but there is no way out except 
by "discharge" or buying out. This brings me to 
a remark in yours of recent date about ambition 
and the rest of it. Now, do not be misled into 
thinking I am content to be a ranker. I am not 
a plodder by nature, and running in a rut does 
not suit my disposition. I can work up enthu- 
siasm about camp life and experience in the ranks, 
simply because I am so horribly adaptable and 
can put up with most things; also I can see the 
Romance in everything — that is the old dramatic 
instinct. But as to this army turn — I find there 
are to be no more forewoman clerks sent out 
from England, for the simple reason that previous 
clerical experience is really no use in an army 
office. The expert and the novice are on equal 
ground, and promotion is given out here, so it 
seems to me that my best plan is to strive to earn 
that same promotion and trust to luck. Morally 
speaking, it doesn't matter what kind of decora- 
tion I carry on my epaulet — whether I am an 
N.C.O. or a private — I am still replacing a man 
in the office. To me that seems the important 
thing. As an officer I should be in charge of a 
camp and do no office work at all — a sort of school 
ma'am's job; for which, seeing that self-discipline 
is not my most noticeable asset, I am not pre- 
cisely equipped. It was the realisation of all this 
that made me say I did not aspire to a commis- 
sion in the W.A.A.C. I am still the only clerk 

[75] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

in the office, and no sign of any more recruits. 
If a new one does come along, I shall be moved 
up, and she will have to learn my present job. 

No, dear, no fear of my losing my heart here- 
abouts. Seriously speaking, it is in such a bat- 
tered condition that extensive repairs would be 
necessary before it could respond to the most 
persistent advance. You ask. what age is the 
S.-M. Well, he looks about forty-seven, although 
his card says thirty-four. He is an old soldier, 
and army life is evidently not so rejuvenating as 
is my own profession. He is a smart little man, 
with a waxed moustache — fearfully proud of his 
job, his office, his colonel, and his clerks. Quite 
an ordinary person — as a man — but hard to beat 
as a soldier. 

The Colonel returned from his leave the other 
day. I am very pleased with him. Hum ! 
wouldn't that gratify him if he knew? He quite 
fulfils his reputation of being the smartest man 
at G.H.Q., and he really is rather a lamb. Some- 
where about fifty. He blew in the first morning 
to say Hullo ! to his chief clerk, of whom he seems 
to think a great deal. When he spotted me he 
came over and shook hands, and asked a few 
questions — how was I getting on, what experience 
I had, etc. Then he said he was going to treat 
all W.A.A.C.s not as ladies, but as soldiers. Of 
course I replied it was the best compliment he 
could pay us — and all that — but how else could 
he treat us? If he started to treat me as a lady — 

[76] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

and an actress — it would be a case of flowers and 
chocolates forward ! No, I much prefer the other 
role— even though I have to stand at attention 
when he enters, and salute him if I have my hat 

on. I am just dying to meet Colonel S n or 

G. one of these days. I want to see the latter' s 
face when I salute. Of course I should do it 
only for a rag — we do not have to salute officers 
other than our own colonels in their offices, and 
our own W.A.A.C. ones if we meet them any- 
where. 

A little sport with two (rather new) subs yes- 
terday. They were on their way to say "Merry 
Christmas" to our Administrator, and stopped 
me and another girl on our way "home" : "I say 
— er — where ah your headquartahs?" I pointed 
in the direction we were going, then one of them 
said, "That's topping! We'll fall in behind 
you," and they did. We marched them up with 
much swank, and they asked all sorts of questions, 
What were we before we joined up, Did we like 
the life out heah, What were we having for our 
Christmas dinner, and, "Bah Jove! I like your 
kit — I think it looks fine." I ached to tell them 
that it might look better if it fitted, but the boys 
meant well, so I remained polite. 

Christmas in camp was really a merry affair. 
We were mostly off duty after mid-day. Our Ad- 
ministrator dined with us, and we also invited her 
to tea. We all sat at one long table in our mess 
hut, kitchen staff and clerks altogether. This is 

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The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

an army tradition. Now, darling, I couldn't be 
a snob if I tried, it isn't in me, but the more (what 
is erroneously called) "democratic" my surround- 
ings become, the more conservative I grow. So 
whenever you fear that I may be slipping into 
rank and file-ism, just remember my early letters 
from the first hostel. Those sentiments still hold 
good. Naturally the shock of the novelty has 
worn off, but I often have a return of the feel- 
ing that prompted that strain of writing. 

On Christmas evening I went to the moving pic- 
tures. This is really a useful form of recreation, 
for I regard it all with a technical eye — and it 
keeps me in touch, at long distance, but still in 
touch, with my own legitimate work. If this war 
does not go on for ever, I may be able to make 
use of the tips I pick up. 

We are snowed up again to-day. Never in my 
life have I seen such sudden and busy snow ex- 
cept on the stage. Now it is starting to freeze 
again. Golly! but this is some winter. Thank 
goodness the shortest day is behind us, and soon 
we shall have daylight to dress by in the morn- 
ing. We dance nearly every night before going 
to bed. It helps to keep us fit, and makes for 
warmth about the feet, but one of these nights 
we shall surely go through to the earth, the whole 
hut rocks. There is a little stove in the middle, 
and the curved roof gives a funny effect. This is 
how it is. 

In the centre is the stove ; in line with the stove is 

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The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

a trestle table — the pictures, if we have them, have 
to be pinned on to the ceiling, so nothing framed 
is any use. In our sleeping-huts we manage like 
this: You see, partition walls in each hut make 
four cubicles, each cubicle holds two beds, and a 
cubicle (inside) is like a wedge of Stilton cheese. 
A shelf runs along the curved wall, and that is 
all the fal-lal decoration there is. We live in 
our suit-cases, as the hut is always liable to mili- 
tary inspection at odd moments, and no sort of 
clothing may be on view. We occasionally see 
an odd colonel or major buzzing about, and then 
are reminded that the W.A.A.C.s are under 
surveillance. 

A nice bunch of letters this morning besides 
yours* so I am feeling fine and Christmassy. 
Fondest love, darling, and, 

Good night, 

Thomasina. 



[79] 



XXI 

From Somewhere in France, 
December iSth, 19 17. 
My dear Peachie, 

I am making strenuous efforts to keep up my 
correspondence with my friends (selfish reason 
really — if I neglect them, they will neglect me), 
but really it is hard work to squeeze it all in. 

A real tragedy looms on my horizon — the lo- 
cal hairdresser refuses to do any shampooing 
while the arctic weather lasts, and I foresee hav- 
ing to wash my hair, somehow, in the hut. Just 
supposing it freezes stiff ! My dream of heaven 
just at present is a place where one could dis- 
robe entirely and wash all over at once. Some 
of these days, when I have acquired vast wealth, 
I shall have a steam-heated bath-room and live 
in it. 

December 31st. 

Was called away at the above point, and for- 
get all the soul-stirring things I was going to put 
down. 

So sorry your holiday programme was spoilt. 
Toothache too! Life, your life, is most certainly 
"one d d thing after another." 

It was an odd sort of Christmas for me. The 

[80] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

social side of life out here is rather a pill to 
swallow, but as long as I am a private it behooves 
me to fall in line and join the crowd. Certainly 
the poor boys derive much pleasure from our com- 
pany, and that is a great compensation. The dear 
things lay themselves out in all possible ways to 
make things pleasant, and it is positively wicked 
to even think a complaint when we remember that 
many of them have been out here three years, 
seeing always the same faces, and listening to the 
same voices — no society save that of each other. 
It is little wonder if brotherly love has not ex- 
actly continued, and if their language is a bit raw. 
I have dodged a good many dances and whist 
drives. I went to one of the latter last night — . 
more out of curiosity than good nature. It might 
be described as a "small function," but only so 
far as the place where it was held is concerned. 
From the outside you would guess the hut ca- 
pable of accommodating one man — or perhaps 
two men, supposing them to be careful and tidy 
persons; but you have another guess coming — 
forty of us were assembled in this reception hall. 
There were five tables — army "tables" are six- 
feet boards on trestles — so eight of you sit at one, 
and your partner is diagonally opposite you. 
Your opponent sits next to you, very near. When 
I said the hut held (somehow) forty, I should 
have said forty players, but there were several 
nonplayers pressed closely round a red-hot stove. 
All the men were smoking, all the windows were 

[81] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

open, so there was only partial asphyxiation. We 
paid 50 centimes per head entrance fee, and there 
were prizes — the "ladies' " prize, a large box of 
chocolates. I played badly, but had luck, and my 
partner had the skill, so all ended happily. But, 
oh ! I am tired to-day. There is to be a dance 
to-night, and we have special permission to remain 
and see the New Year in. I am awfully excited 
about it. I have seen many curious New Years' 
innings, and this experience will add something 
worth remembering to my collection. I do hope 
the men will keep fairly sober. It is only after- 
noon, and I am yawning for my sleepy-bye — but 
I shall feel worse to-morrow. 

If you're waking very early, 
Do not call me, there's a dear, 
For I care not for the sunrise 
Upon the glad New Year. 
That early morning reveille 
Has a mad'ning sound for me, 
So up if you must and fall in line, 
But kindly let me be. 

Whispered in the ear of my nearest comrade 
this has no effect whatever — callous little wretch ! 

I had heaps of Christmas letters. All my best- 
est friends really turned up trumps with lovely 
long letters which I did not deserve, as I have 
scarce written to a soul but you since I have been 
in France. 

[82] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

Mrs. M. is a darling — she asks is there any way 
of sending me some quince jam! My word! Is 
there ! ! ! I venture to believe that a certain per- 
son—hum ! — will see that it is packed and posted. 
N'est pas? 

Bye-bye, dearest, 

As always, 

Thomasina. 



[83] 



XXII 

From Somewhere in France, 
January 1st, 191 8. 
Dearest Peach, 

The first letter of the New Year comes your 
way, bringing my dear love, best wishes for good 
health, and every possible happiness. I hope my 
last letter of this same year will not go out from 
here — and so say all of us. 

We ushered in the New Year at the dance I 
told you yesterday was in store for us. It was 
a small gathering, comparatively speaking, be- 
cause the only place available would hold no more. 
The lights were turned out at midnight, and some 
one beat the hour out on the big drum, or was it 
the cymbals? — probably a dixie and poker for 
baton. We all linked hands in the approved man- 
ner and sang "Auld Lang Syne.' 5 Has it ever 
been explained why people who have met for the 
first and (possibly) last time sing "Auld Lang 
Syne"? Shades of many a New Year's Eve came 
back to me, and I imagined you hanging out of 
your window to listen for the bells that would, 
alas ! be dumb this year. 

We had a march to the dance — about fifteen 
minutes — and made a most praiseworthy effort 
to keep our footing on the glassy road. We 

[84] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

all danced every dance of course, and as some of 
our partners were not dancing men, and the 
others were out of practice in consequence of hav- 
ing been out here for several years, you can imag- 
ine what a strenuous time we had. We marched 
back somewhere near one o'clock, and made night 
hideous with our song. Fortunately for the oc- 
cupants we passed very few human habitations. 
We are somewhat of a noisy crowd on the march. 
Up again this morning at the usual time, and 
office work piled high on my desk to greet me ! 
My fatigue of yesterday has quite worn off — 
application of homeopathic principle, I suppose — 
but I look like the very deuce. Talk about the 
fag-end of an ill-spent life ! Evidently my years 
are beginning to tell on me ! Hard luck to have 
to carry your birth certificate on your face. I 
have just made a discovery. After six months' 
service we get £i kit allowance credited us. Lord 
knows what I should do if we were compelled to 
draw the £i in kind, for there is little of any 
value to be had at the army stores here. The 
shoes are a delusion and a snare, but the stock- 
ings are good — although no one would want to 
buy eight pairs; the only thing would be to buy 
half a frock! As for collars, I have eight instead 
of three — the regular issue. I happened to be 
chummy with two girls at the home hostel who 
were going to be forewomen, so when they got 
their clothing they gave me their collars. They 
had been given to them, although it was quite ob- 

[85] 



The Letter 8 of Thomasina Atkins 

vious that they could never be worn. C 'est la 
guerre. Forewomen wear cream collars — tussore 
as a rule — and they have to provide them. Isn't 
it rather silly? Now, having a good supply of 
these brown collars on hand, it will be just my 
luck to have my promotion come along. I don't 
know how I slipped through kit inspection with- 
out comment. It was rather like the Customs' 
House inspection — very thorough at first, and a 
bit sloppy towards the end when every one was 
tired. Then, you see, there was that Embarkation 
Drill, a beastly tiring stunt, how to carry your 
bag, and how to drop it on the word of com- 
mand — quite easy that. From the quay to the 
boat we had to look after all our own things, and 
it took some doing, combined with our newly ac- 
quired military deportment — which insists, that no 
matter the weight of your bag, you shall not walk 
lopsided. But here I am harking back to things 
that happened centuries ago. 

I enclose our regimental Christmas card — just 
as a souvenir. 

I have been writing this in the office where it 
is warm and quiet (as a rule), but casual visitors 
are now dropping in, so the din commences. 
Ever yours fondly, 

Thomasina. 



[86] 



XXIII 

From Somewhere in France, 
January 6th, 191 8. 
Dear Peachikins, 

The parcel "has came/' as the Darkie usually 
says, for which many thanks. Everything was 
in order, and no casualties — and I feel in clover. 
So sorry to hear of D.'s bereavement. Poor soul ! 
but, my dear, next year he would have been of 
calling-up age— so que voulez vousf 

I have been leaving a long gap between letters 
this week, but it is this a-way. The Colonel went 
to Paris for the New Year, and before depart- 
ing on Monday, he left a little job to be finished 
by Friday, which brought all hands on deck, and 
one night I worked very late. It was all figures, 
and they will dance about so, which makes for 
wuzziness. Indeed my brain became so groggy 
that I couldn't think straight; but the beastly job 
is over, and now I am waiting for a big box of 
chocolates to appear on my desk. I imagine it 
will be "some wait." 

We have had a concert party en visite this 
week. Very good. One popular song was rear- 
ranged for a chorus of men and one girl; the boy 
who played the girl made a great hit, he was 
extremely coy. There was much patter intro- 

[87] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

duced, mostly military "shop," and it went with 
yells. The butt of all jokes and stories is always 
the Sergeant-major or the Sergeants' Mess, and 
there was a plentiful supply of this sort of hu- 
mour. "Jimmy Green, you have come into school 
without a pencil; now, what would you say of a 
soldier who went into battle without a rifle?" 
"Please, teacher, I should say he was an or fleer!' 
(Shouts.) Some fearful chestnuts took on a fresh 
lease of life. Among the performers was a trick 
cyclist; he was working on a stage about six by 
ten feet, and he brought on an attendant with a 
step-ladder a la Coliseum. It was too deliciously 
absurd for words. The costumes of the party 
are a scream; they collect them from all sorts of 
places and cart them and the scenery from town 
to town. The girl had a priceless wig — with a 
bun at the nape of the neck. Her dress was pale 
blue chiffon, to the knees, a low, square neck; 
black ribbon round the throat; long black suede 
gloves, and black silk stockings; very slender 
ankles — in fact, a fine "girl." The second part 
of the programme opened with a serious selec- 
tion, so of course you have guessed it was Faust. 
You never saw such a vermilion villain as the 
"Mephisto." The next night the serious hit was 
Faust again ("Valentine's" death scene), and 
when poor Valentine, writhing according to tra- 
dition, bade his chum "Search in his breast for 
the key to the secret," one of the audience re- 
marked audibly, "He's looking for his identity 
[88] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

disc!" Well, well! These things look very fool- 
ish set down on paper, but they serve to let you 
know how we beguile ourselves when off duty. . 

Many thanks for the verses; I like them, but 
fear they may be a trifle "high brow" for the 
troops out here. You see, there is absolutely no 
serious thought of the work in hand, all is non- 
chalance, and a light kind of cynicism. There is 
undoubtedly a keen longing for the end of the war, 
and anything, or any one, that seems to be help- 
ing towards that becomes of immediate impor- 
tance. But there is little, or no thought for the 
morrow, and none, positively none, for next week. 
For that one has to go to the heads. 

Apropos, have a look in the New Year's num- 
ber of the . There is a page full of the 

"Heads and Brains of the W.A.A.C.s." Don't be 
disappointed that my face is not among them. 
Bear up! 

This is Sunday, and I ought to sit down and 
write piles of letters, but the sun is shining, and 
I am going for a walk instead. After much crook- 
ing at a desk, legs need stretching. This little 
town nestles in a hole like Bath — surrounding 
country very pretty, plenty of woods, and, once 
clear of the town, very good roads. You would 
just love it. 

Bye-bye, dearie, 
Alle samey love, 

Thomasina. 

[89] 



XXIV 

From Somewhere in France, 
January 7th, 191 8. 
Peachie Dear, 

I forgot to mention the prints ; they reached me 
quite undamaged. Thank A. for her careful 
packing. Just as soon as the mercury crawls 
up a little higher I will get busy with those same 
"picters," and I hope to make my hut a vision 
of delight. At present we are in the throes of 
another bitter spell; I believe you are sharing 
it, so there is no sense in dwelling on it. New 
York must be a cosy spot just now. Imagine it 
with no steam heat, owing to coal shortage. I 
have "indented" for a thick sweater from the 
Quartermaster's Stores, at one of the bases. 
They have some very good ones, to go under, 
or over, a coat-frock, and they are only about 
twelve francs. Also I am buying a new pair of 
shoes from the canteen. My own browns are not 
standing the strain of heavy roads, and my "army 
issue" are already gone up for repairs. I men- 
tion these sordid details in order to ward off any 
facetiousness in regard to saving out of my pay. 

January 8 th. 
Tried to get on with the preceding, yesterday, 

[90] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

but no luck. At this moment I am in the office 
— in charge. The Colonel has gone to bed with 
a cold, and the chief clerk has gone down to the 
mess to see him. All the others are out — on odd 
jobs — that is how it happens I am by my lones. 
Goll darn it! there goes the telephone, no peace 

for the . All right, I am back again — only 

one of the officers upstairs rang through to put a 
thoroughly unnecessary question, probably wanted 
to find out if I was here, and could answer the 
" 'phone." I gather that the chief clerk is an 
old type of sergeant-major. He did eight years' 
service before the war, and joined up again Au- 
gust 19 14. Out here ever since, I believe, and 
he is keenly awaiting his 19 14 star. 

He is a veritable lambkin to work for. A few 
days ago he cast an eye down at my shoes (which 
I had not had time to polish), and offered me 
brush and polishing cloth. Absent-mindedly I 
thrust forward my feet, and down he went on his 
knees and polished for all he was worth — just like 
any nice little gentleman. Of course I thanked 
him like a nice little lady — then the quaintness of 
the situation occurred to me. A Staff Sergeant- 
major — Warrant Officer, Class I — cleaning the 
shoes of a five weeks' old private! Well! I 
nipped a budding smile and went on with my 
work. You see, they pride themselves on treating 
us as ordinary soldiers, but, bless their hearts, 
they can't do it — at least not all the time. 

Oh! the army of to-day's all right, but what 

[91] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

about the army of the day after to-morrow, what 
is it going to be like by the time the W.A.A.C.s 
have had a real whack at it? The Colonel has the 
same forgetful habit — I mean in regard to his 
resolution to treat us merely as private soldiers. 
He came in the other evening with instructions 
for the S.-M. concerning something which had 
been left undone in some department, and he 
wound up his speech, "And you tell them they are 
a lot of" blankety, blankety blanks, etc. Then he 
suddenly caught sight of me, and, covered with 
confusion and laughter, bolted from the room. 
He is a dear old thing. 

Among the girls I have two chums in particular. 
The one who shares my hut is a little pet. She 
has the tiniest face, always on the grin, and our 
camp wag calls her "Hail, Smiling Morn." She 
is older than I am, but looks younger. The other 
is a big girl — only twenty, but taller than I, and 
rather fat, in fact very solid. Of course she is 
dubbed "Fairy" by the boys — which is rather 
mean. She is a great sport, and so doesn't mind. 
She is a typist at our office, and it is topping for 
me to have her for company on the daily trots 
to and fro. 

We have one Enfant Terrible and general 
scapegoat — a most amusing kid — never been 
away from home before — very young — no use 
whatever for discipline. 

She made a great hit one night at drill with an 
explosive "Dash it all, it's a blinking nuisance!" 

[92] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

There was a yell from the squad, and even the 
N.C.O. was a bit gassed by it and had to laugh. 
Of course she (the irrepressible one) has been 
known as "Dash it all Smith" ever since. On an- 
other occasion she made a mistake — the order was 
"left" and she went "right." When reprimanded, 
she said, "But, dash it all, I don't see that it makes 
any difference!" And she doesn't- — that's the 
funny part of her. 

Bye-bye, dear, I have heaps more to write, but 
I no longer have the office to myself, and I must 
look about for work. I shall not have far to 
look — a glance over my shoulder to where my 
"Boss" is ensconced with just the suggestion of a 
scowl mounting to his baby brow. Something 
outside has gone wrong. Poor dear, it is hard 
on him that I am only a girl, and he can't vent 
his anger in appropriate language — on me. 
More to-morrow from 

Yours affectionately, 

Thomasina. 



[93] 



XXV 

From Somewhere in France, 
January gth, 191 8. 
Dear Peachie, 

We thawed two days ago, and at the sight of a 
blade of grass my spirits rose, and I shouted, 
"Hail, Spring!" Rash fool in my folly! This 
morning we are snowed over again; it is freez- 
ing, and now we are slithering about as before. 
I must be getting inured to the temperature, for 
I have seldom felt more fit. Have your water- 
pipes frozen yet? 

I have been reading about your meatless days 
and your butterless weeks and the endless trouble 
about the food. Luckily we have none of that. 
What do you think of the German mutiny story? 
It had a cheering effect on all our boys. I saw 
a large batch of little "round caps" being trotted 
into town yesterday, regular "sawed offs" — and 
very young. A miserable-looking bunch. 

Now that the holidays are over, we all think 
and talk Spring, snow and ice notwithstanding. 
Spring seems to be only just round the corner — 
and in the Spring the young girl's fancy lightly 
turns to thoughts of leave. Two of our girls are 
going next week — they have been out here six 
months. I daren't even think about my own turn 

[94] 



The Letters of Thotnasina Atkins 

for another two or three months, and then I shall 
begin to mutter things. As far as the office is 
concerned, it will be easy enough. At the camp 
it will be more difficult to get my own way. Still 
I have hopes of gaining the sympathetic ear to- 
ward the end of April, if I am very, very good. 
One of our forewomen is away on leave at pres- 
ent; she was due back to-morrow, but has had ex- 
tension because she is laid up with bronchitis. Rot- 
ten luck to spend one's leave thus. Poor thing! 
she is verra Scotch — (not poor thing on that ac- 
count, but bronchitisly speaking) , and she loves 
the sound of her own voice while warbling. She 
occupies the adjoining cubicle in my hut, and treats 
me to snatches of melody at all hours of the day 
and night. When the sentimental ballads are ex- 
hausted, she falls back on hymns, and I awoke 
one morning to the reminder (very loud) , that "A 
few more years shall roll." I nearly threw my 
frozen sponge at her (and that would have re- 
duced her few to a minimum), but I remembered 
in time that she was a N.C.O. and that I had no 
redress. The slightest expostulation would have 
meant a "fatigue," towards which yours truly has 
no sort of inclination; but I did get back on the 
girls, and, being lambs, they understood. 

Our other N.C.O. is a quaint little Welsh girl 
— very young for her job, and, "look you," she 
is about four feet eight inches high. And oh! 
so tubby. She is a dear, and extremely popular. 
I call her my little Welsh rabbit, and we get on 

[95] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

splendidly. I introduced her to a nice boy, the 
chief clerk of our branch office here. He is six 
feet tall and proportionately broad. They go 
walking together, and that sight brings joy to the 
camp. Her head just about reaches his belt. I 
came across a rather promising youth the other 
day, really seemed quite interesting — and then I 
discovered he cleaned his nails, "for all the world 
to see," with his pocket-knife. My! but it is a 
drawback to be so pertickler. 

The hard weather has been a trial to our local 
laundress, and a tragedy to us. Some of my new 
undies have come to a violent and sudden end. 
My woolly spencer came back like a piece of dark 
grey wood — had to thaw it and wear it, because 
I have only the two. Try and get me some more 
(Scotch wool, if procurable) and send at once. 
My beautiful brown shoes have finally rebelled 
against snow and ice, and have split from toe to 
heel. You see, nothing will prevent them from 
freezing at night — and to save my new goloshes 
I am wrapping them in newspaper and taking them 
to bed with me. I shall do this with my new 
shoes when I get them. Oh ! I do hope they will 
behave — shoes are so dear. This weather does 
spell disaster to one's clothes — the roads are so 
rough and the wind is not much tempered to us 
poor lambs. The nice tall boy I mentioned has 
just come into the office with his dog — a darling 
thing like a young elephant, but with a much more 
lively disposition. I have just given him a lump 

[96] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

of coal to keep him quiet. He is eating it with ap- 
parent relish, so I think I will dodge off to dinner 
so as to escape the funeral and his young master's 
wrath. Young master preoccupied — writing. Last 
morsel of coal about to disappear — so also is 

Your loving 

Thomasina. 



[97] 



XXVI 

From Somewhere in France, 
January nth, 191 8. 
Dear Peachie, 

Having just pushed my last letter into the "out" 
box, I went home to lunch to find yours of the 6th 
waiting for me — which inclined me to sit down 
and write reams more. But business at the of- 
fice, and coldness at the camp, made it impossible. 
I spend more and more of my time at the office. 
I feel at home there, somehow, and (even when 
quite alone) much less lonely than when I am in 
a crowd. This is odd, considering I have spent 
so much of my life in large communities. Camp 
life takes me back to my school-days, and, al- 
though there are two or three girls whom I like 
very much, a queer mental loneliness comes over 
me in waves, and sometimes takes complete pos- 
session of me. And then I become introspective, 
retrospective, and prospective, and find myself 
trying vainly to see the sense of this topsy-turvy 
war business; so much energy, so much brain 
work, so much real vital force being exhausted — 
on what? The purpose of it is dim at the best of 
times, but at these times — of which I am writing 
— it is non-existent. There is a lot of talk about 
the ultimate good to the human race — but where 

[98] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

and when does this good start? I, personally, 
can see no improvement individually, or en masse. 
Of course I am not speaking of the war itself, and 
the necessity for making its recurrence impossible 
— there can be no argument as to that — but army 
life, with its out-of-date routine, its red tape 
which binds nothing together, its awe of the letter 
and indifference to the spirit — I used to believe 
that, at least, it inculcated willingness and sacri- 
fice, self-control, poise, but oh! I hae ma grave 
doots. As far as the majority is concerned (and 
it is the majority that I have in mind), the men 
and women alike are doing their job because 
they have to. Pressure comes from without, not 
from within; their superior in rank of whatever 
qualification must be blindly obeyed, so that re- 
sistance is pent-up, and dissatisfaction has to be 
vented on each other. You will remember what 
Harold Chapin says in one of his letters, "Your 
enemy is not the German, but the man next you 
in the trench who may steal your helmet." Well, 
that applies all the time. The golden rule in the 
army is "each man for himself." When the bitter 
weather is with us and we feel the pinch, it is 
curious to watch the devices of each girl to get 
the drop of warm water for her bottle, to edge 
into the place nearest the fire at meal-times. There 
is a wealth of good nature and unselfishness to be 
found, but it is in those people who have always 
been unselfish under any conditions. This kind 
of life is not going to change anybody; it merely 

[99] ' 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

brings out latent qualities and develops them, both 
good and bad. Many parents will think their 
girls have been altered by camp life because so 
many of them (the offspring) are at the develop- 
ing age. But, darling love, I hope you won't be 
disappointed — it is not going to change anything 
in me. I shall come back with all the old faults, 
and possibly a few new ones. 

The paragraph you enclosed is very interesting, 
but it leaves me cold. It is a splendid thing to 
have your mind fixed, and to know exactly what 
you want, but oh ! my dear, is it so splendid to ride 
rough shod over everything and everybody in the 
achieving of one's own personal success? Do 
these people do sufficient good when they get there 
to justify the harm they cause all along the road? 
Well, life is given to do with as we like, and is 
exclusively our own show, so all my moralising 
avails but little. Talking of people making or 
marring their lives reminds me of T. I am rather 
worried about him. Now, don't say I am a fool 
to waste a thought on him — because I know that 
already. But pals are pals — and I don't like to 
see mine, even the derelicts, drop away. Try and 
find out what has become of him if you can. I 
know you hate to butt in when people evince such 
a marked disposition to be left alone, but still — 
a little diplomacy — might — eh? 

Do send me a song that we can use on the 
march; we are awfully hard up for melody. Ob- 
serve ! I am bucking up already and throwing off 

[ioo] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

the cobwebs of pessimism. The letter you for- 
warded from the States is the first from that quar- 
ter since I signed on. They "feel worried about 
me." Oh! dearie me! what a funny world it 
really is after all, and we miss the humour half 
the time — because we intern our intelligence, and 
become absorbed in trivialities. I was shaken out 
of them for a minute last night by falling "ker- 
plunk" in the mud outside the camp in the dark — 
raining hard! Now that was a real thing, and 
oh ! so beautifully sudden. Alas ! my only pair of 
gloves ! I was all dressed up — yes, I had some- 
where to go. Being splashed up to the eyes has 
no terrors after the bitter frost. It is such a treat 
to be able to relax a muscle. 

Good-bye. Don't ask me where I get all my 
green envelopes — have always known it was better 
to be born lucky than rich. 

Fondest love, 

Thomasina. 



[ioi] 



XXVII 

From Somewhere in France, 
January iSth, 1918. 
Dearest Peachie, 

Ever so many thanks for the parcel. The 
woolly which A. calls the "Worthy" will do splen- 
didly. It is certainly not depending on its ap- 
pearance for its popularity, but on its intrinsic 
worth — like its owner. The other two will serve 
for those warmer days of which we are dreaming. 
I know how scarce all these things are now in 
London, but here they are unknown, so I shall be 
as careful as poss. to make them last. The gloves 
are just right. The mittens I brought with me 
are useless, and I am tempted to send them back 
to have fingers stuck on them. The quince 
preserve made a great hit. We had an orgy in 
my hut, and you may tell Mrs. M. that she is a 
white lamb. So sorry to have missed my mid- 
week letter, but work has been awfully stiff lately, 
and I have been going back to the office nearly 
every night and remain till ten. The one night off 
I went to a dance — quite the jolliest I have at- 
tended. Met there a nice young sub. (brother of 
M. T.), who was delighted to talk u shop" — my 
shop — and was otherwise rather a dear. 

I enclose a little light literature (programmes 

[102] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

of our Amateur Theatricals, arranged by the 
Troops' Literary and Debating Society), just to 
show you how spare evenings are passed in the 
army. This "Breach of Promise Case" or "Mock 
Trial" was really a bit of a lark, but wasn't it 
just my luck to be cast for the Plaintiff ? We were 
terribly serious and professional — real stage — 
and the scratch costumes were alone worth the 
price of admission. There was tremendous ex- 
citement among the men at the opportunity of 
getting into "civies" and make-up. They just 
love to slab the grease paint on. My clothes (I 
won't describe them) were borrowed from a 
civilian friend of the Administrator, and we had 
a group photograph taken, if you please. I tell 
you, Irving, Benson, etc., must look to their 
laurels. My Counsel — the Major — is by way of 
being a poet; he kindly brings me yards of stuff 
to spout. He made a very good speech to open 
the case, and got plenty of laughs. I had a trying 
time under cross-examination by the opposing 
Counsel, but eventually swam through, and the 
jury (mixed) gave me the verdict — but only £5 
damages instead of £2,000. The defence accused 
me of having a flirtatious disposition and other- 
wise tried to blacken my character. One of the 
witnesses was asked had he ever given me any- 
thing of value, "Oh, yes," was the prompt reply, 
"I gave her two green envelopes." Laughter! 
All this nonsense has taken up my spare mid-day 
hours for several days. As soon as I sat down to 

[103] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

my letters, or any other important job, I would 
hear my name shouted, and be told that Major 

was waiting in the office to go over his part. 

Finally I took to hiding in despair, but was gen- 
erally dug out. It was the Major who got up the 
dance for us early in the week. He has some 
jolly little subs, in his bunch, and they did things 
very well — even to sending a lorry to fetch us. 
This was almost a necessity, as the mud was ankle 
deep in the middle of the roads. Nobody ever 
tried the sides. 

Hold your breath! I have been promoted. 

This deserves a fresh paragraph. Our N.C.O. 
being away on leave, four temporary corporals 
have been nominated to carry on — two from the 
household staff and two clerks. We are made 
conspicuous by a strip of brown bootlace across 
the shoulder strap — neat, not gaudy — and we are 
responsible for everything that goes, or may go 
wrong. So my camp life now is a matter of roll 
calls, lights out, and passes, plus taking care of 
the youngsters in camp, and, as our song says, 
"It makes no difference to our pay." I have in 
the office a new recruit, placed under my wing to 
learn my job from me. I have been here only six 
weeks, but no matter, and I am learning the job 
of the man next higher up ! So all my hands are 
full. In a couple of months I ought to have my 
cream collar, badges, and pay. That interesting 
stage reached, it should be an easy matter for me 
to get a commission, if I can bring myself to bear 

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The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

the idea of an officer's job. In the Gazette yester- 
day there were three inches of space all W.A.A.C. 
commissions. 

Of all dull letters, commend me to this one, 
but the figures on which I am engaged at the of- 
fice are dancing a tango in front of my eyes. Be 
good, darling, and remember always — 

Your loving 

Thomasina. 



[105] 



XXVIII 

From Somewhere in France, 
January iyd } 191 8. 
HOW NOW, DEAR PEACHIE? 

I hope to find a letter from you at the camp 
when I tramp thither for dinner. I usually do 
on Wednesday. I hope you are sharing our spell 
of warm weather. Although it is treacherous and 
horribly wet, still it is better than the bitter, cruel 
frost. 

I saw a copy of a London paper yesterday, and 
in it a notice of the Concert Party now playing 
at one of the theatres. It is the same company 
of which I wrote you, and they seem to be giving 
the same programme. Do go to see them, if you 
can, and let me know how the entertainment 
strikes you. My judgment is probably all topsy- 
turvy by now, and totally unreliable. You see, I 
have reached the stage when anything, however 
puerile and drivelling, appears funny. I so rarely 
hear a clever phrase or an apt remark. There 
must be plenty of brain somewhere hereabouts, 
but in my immediate surroundings it is not discern- 
ible. Nothing but the reiteration of the ob- 
vious, indecision, contradiction, and confusion of 
thought. Perhaps it is merely an instance of that 

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The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

"familiarity which breeds, etc.," but I do long for 
a note of originality. 

The break in the weather here has brought the 
football enthusiasts out again, after a rest of six 
weeks (which was not doing them any good), and 
last Sunday there was a thrilling match. I had 
to go with one of the typists from our office (a 
very nice girl, by the way) , or life would not have 
been worth living for either of us, because one of 
our boys was playing and our Sergeant-major, he 
of the whiskers, was the referee ! They play As- 
sociation, which is not nearly so exciting to watch 
as Rugger — still it was very good play. There 
was only one accident — a poor boy was mistaken 
for the ball, and caught somebody's foot in his 
chest. Result — casualty — "rib broken — one." He 
was "dead man" for half an hour, and an ambu- 
lance was summoned; rotten luck — especially as 
he was on our side. However, we won 6-0, and 
as the boy from our office scored two of the goals, 
there was much jubilation, and, as I heard after- 
wards, much "pushing out of boats" when we 
girls went off duty. Voila la guerre! 

We are agitating to form a Hockey Team in 
our camp — a little violent exercise will do us no 
harm. Then the fun will be to challenge a he 
male team who will play with broom-sticks ! We 
are full of the plan — we always are full of some 
plan. Then the enthusiasm wanes, or the imprac- 
ticability is realised; but 'tis better to have planned 
and lost heart, than never to have planned at all. 

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The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

To-day I missed my customary walk on account of 
the mud. It really is too thick even for me- — so 
I stayed in camp and drummed up courage, soap 
and water for a head shampoo — my first since I 
landed here. Great success ! clean, but very 
straight. I am no longer troubled by the candid 
severity of my appearance. No one could remain 
in the army and retain a vestige of vanity. There 
is a struggle for a few days — then all is over — 
and you face your mirror (when you find one) 
unflinchingly. Talking of severity, do you notice 
how stereotyped and clerical my fist is becoming? 
Much writing in registers ! I hope my brain will 
not follow suit. Haven't you noticed that people 
with fat, stodgy brains always write this sort of 
hand? I am vested in my "worthy." It is beauti- 
fully warm — which is more than can be said of 
most symbols of respectability; it is a wee bit 
scratchy, but will probably have its claws drawn 
by our vigorous laundress. 

Please explain to all enquirers why I have neg- 
lected them in the matter of letters. Pile it on 
thick! You cannot possibly exaggerate the case. 
I really wish the day had forty-eight hours, or 
that one had no need of sleep. I do sleep — like 
the dead — and I look very well. Rosy tints still 
refuse to lodge in my cheeks, but rainwater makes 
for freshness, and I always use it — it gives one a 
soft, lissom feeling. When I find myself missing 
the luxuries of yore, I remind myself of the rain- 

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The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

water, and I realise that camp life has its compen- 
sations for a sybarite such as 

Yours affectionately, 

Thomasina. 



[109] 



XXIX 

From Somewhere in France, 
January 30th, 191 8. 
Dear old Peachie, 

A.'s letter just in. So sorry you have been ill 
again. 

I imagine that Monday night's skirmish did not 
improve matters. Have been reading about it 
this morning, and it has made me feel rather sick. 

Oh! but this horrible war! 

We are in a state of suspense and anxiety at 
the office. It has been going on more or less for 
three weeks, and is likely to last another two. I 
cannot be explicit, but certain persons in high 
places have "got the wind up," and there is some 
sort of scheme afloat. We may be dispersed, we 
may be amalgamated, or the whole idea may go 
up in smoke, and leave us just where and how we 
are. As it is, we are living from day to day, won- 
dering what is going to happen, where we are to 
be sent, or if? It reminds me of touring with a 
dubious success on a tour of small towns. Will 
the tour continue? Or shall we put in for an- 
other job ? Well ! there is no sense in worrying, 
but it is unsettling. 

Life in camp goes on as usual; we have some 
new girls over, and our two N.C.O.s (the thistle 

[no] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

and the leek) are both back from leave and go- 
ing strong. While dressing this morning I had 
the old hymnal accompaniment from the Scottie in 
the adjoining cubicle. I did my best to drown it 
— made all the hideous noises I could with the aid 
of a bad cold. No use — the programme con- 
tinued, and "Hark! hark, my soul!" came along 
in regular order. When the vocalist reached the 
verse "Rest comes at length," I said, "Some 
hope," and "Hail, Smiling Morn," nearly rolled 
out of bed with laughter. Oh ! did I tell you that 
I am supposed to be a wit? If I say "Good morn- 
ing," it is greeted with laughter. I am wondering 
if I can get a job in the comic line when the war 
is over. There might be money in it. For a side 
partner I might do worse than adopt our office 
orderly. He's a wild little Irishman. This morn- 
ing the fire was smoking, so Pat was called in to 
see to it. He first threw on a rag soaked in paraf- 
fin, then another soaked in petrol. This set the 
chimney on fire — but the stove smoked on. Then 
he looked wise, and remarked, "Sure, and if I 
had known the fire was smoking, I wouldn't have 
lighted it this morning, I would not." I met him 
in the street this afternoon, and he took his cap 
off to me ! The shock nearly gassed me. I had 
forgotten that hats ever came off except to hang 
on a peg. 

Have you heard the latest? From one General 
to another. "What is better than a slap on the 
back?" 

[in] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

Answer: "A whack (W.A.A.C) on the knee." 
There's another, but it is less circumspect, so I'll 
save it. 

Young H. writes me that he hopes to make 
tracks for London about the 12th, and he sug- 
gests my wangling for leave to go to Boulogne to 
see him off. The idea is neat, but it doesn't thrill 
me. It would probably mean two days' leave for 
half an hour's chat. The boat would slink off — 
and there should I be gazing pensively after it 
from the quay. No, thanks ! I don't see myself 
posing for a picture postcard, thuswise, but oh! 
"Isn't it like a Man?" If he doesn't come back 
this way and drop off to see me — well ! then he is 
a black toad. 

I hear rumours of the war being over in July, 
or September, but no year specified! So, cheerio! 
Do take care of yourself, darling, and hug your- 
self tight for your own 

Thomasina. 



[112] 



XXX 

From Somewhere in France, 
February 3rd, 19 18. 
Dearest Peachie, 

Hooray for the sight of your own fist again. I 
love to see it in pencil especially — that always 
suggests that you are in your old writing mood. 
You must keep up these little jaunts out of town. 
I am sure they help towards your well being. 

Thank you so much for all your trouble. Shop- 
ping is such an awful business these days. If you 
have not already packed the parcel, do not include 
the cold cream — in case I am moved on from here. 
You see, if I am shifted, I shall have to do some 
bequeathing. No matter how hard we try to re- 
duce our needs, and curtail our possessions, things 
will accumulate, and the small travelling-recep- 
tacle does not expand. 

I am particularly distressed at the thought that 
I shall have to destroy so many letters. I have 
always kept yours from all parts of the world, 
and these war-time letters will be interesting read- 
ing in the years to come. Talking of letters, that 
open theatrical letter you enclosed is very good 
and sound advice. Perhaps I think so because it 
is what I have all along made bold to suggest. It 
is only those who have reached the top who can 

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The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

do anything for those on the way up. The A.A. 
is a splendid organisation — Vunion fait la force, 
and all that, I know — but I am a dyed-in-the-wool 
conservative, and the "Vox Populi" is not har- 
monious to my ears. I adore caste, I cling to class 
distinction, and I solemnly believe in the real aris- 
tocracy as rulers and directors. They have gained 
the necessary experience by centuries of service, 
and to them power means responsibility and 
naught else. After all, "Aristocracy" only means 
"Nobility" combined with "Potency." Well, 
these essences take a long time in the brewing, 
and me for the finished product every time. I find 
myself very positive on this head since I joined 
the army of to-day. Whenever you find rebellion 
to the front and law and order going by the board, 
have a look at those in authority. Lordie ! you" 
ought to see some of the specimens I have met 
whose applications for commissions have been 
"recommended." I often meditate on the "after 
the war" condition of the Army and the State! 
Have you ever realised how Gilbertian the situa- 
tion is going to be? Naturally the universal de- 
mand will be, "No more war"; therefore an en- 
larged army, armies of occupation in all con- 
quered territory and in the Colonies. How are 
we going to reconcile this with the trend of evo- 
lution and advanced thought? Modern socialism 
preaches specialisation. Let boots be cleaned only 
by boot cleaners, clothes mended by qualified re- 
pairers, food prepared only by experts. The army 

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The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

says, "Every man his own boot cleaner, his own 
cook, and his own mender." Question: Is the 
Army going to be entirely reorganised? If so, 
on what basis? Communal living leaves no place 
for the presence of an army! I am extraordina- 
rily curious on these points, and I hope to live to a 
ripe old age, just to have my curiosity satisfied. 

Strange you should have asked me about books. 
I do want a good Marcus Aurelius. He is the 
only comrade I have a fancy for at present; 
he would fill the bill when I really want to read. 
Anything more modern would be tiresome, unless 
I have missed the best in up-to-date philosophy. 
Serious reading is well-nigh impossible out here. 
It is not so much a question of time as the power 
of concentration. Interest flags, and one drops 
into the habit of seizing on to the lightest kind of 
stuff — "brain dope," I call it. Even the alleged 
"funny" magazine is devoured by way of recrea- 
tion. I think it is because each day brings forth 
such a mass of facts to tax the point of view, and 
to test one's opinions, that there is no room left 
for sidelights. In reading philosophy there is 
such a temptation to adopt it, and make life fit it, 
Here the great task is to make one's own phi- 
losophy fit in with life. It is a confusing game, and 
when the tired brain can rest, it endeavours to 
get the contents simmered down and the waste 
matter skimmed off the top. Oh! my dear, my 
dear, I wish I had you out here, so that we could 
talk events over as they happen. There is so 

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The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

much that is interesting, and that gives one to 
pause — and that, alas ! I cannot mention. Per- 
haps it is as well, in a way. Your hair would 
surely stand on end — even mine is almost curling. 
So you will perceive they are "some" happenings. 
Good night, love, 

Gaw-blessyer, 

Thomasina. 



[«6] 



XXXI 

From Somewhere in France, 
February 6th, 191 8. 
Darling Peachie, 

Just a line to remind you that I love you in 
case you have forgotten it. So you have had 
fogs and things! We don't deal in them out 
here. I feel, somehow, that I am having the best 
of it by a long way — am uncommonly buoyant, 
perhaps because the weather is delightful (touch 
wood!). There is that real country Spring smell 
everywhere. You would so enjoy it, and I wish 
you were here. In the ordinary course of affairs 
you would be bored stiff, but under existing cir- 
cumstances you would find oodles of things to en- 
tertain you ! ! ! 

There seems to be a sad dearth of news this 
week; it is not particularly interesting to record 
that I get up, work, eat, and go to bed — and then 
repeat the experiment next day. I am getting fat 
^-isn't it callous of me? Perhaps it is the ex- 
cellent brand of sleep I indulge in, or is it the 
chocolates? I rather disdained sweets in my early 
youth. Well, I am levelling up now. My pal 
who works in the office has just gone home on 
leave. I feel doubly envious of her, as she lives 
in my part of London town. I should have liked 

I "71 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

to ask her to call on you, but did not dare en- 
croach on her all too brief holiday. Never mind, 
the days are flying by, and I have my own leave 
to look forward to. Dead silence regarding our 
migration — still there is a feeling that we are to 
be moved somewhere. "But we know not the 
day or the hour." 

Heaps of thanks for the parcel. I am very 
much spoilt getting everything I ask for, and so 
quickly. Yes, I know that is nothing new in 
my case, but out here one's appreciation is more 
keen, and perhaps that is where we are all benefit- 
ing morally. I have always taken things as a mat- 
ter of course, and have frequently confused my 
rights with my privileges. 

February 10th. 

After the foregoing confession I felt I needed 
to take a few days off. But it's all right, it still 
goes — and I mean it. 

The plot (regarding our being moved on) 
seems to be weakening, and now I have a "hunch" 
that it was only a bubble and is busted. I hope 
so; I was getting horribly strung up and nervy 
about it. It is strange that one should conceive an 
attachment to a half of a cubicle, but so it is, and 
I now understand the feelings of that famous 
sparrow who built up that equally famous spout, 
and his sense of injury at the adjective thunder- 
storm that came and drove him out. No, I 
haven't written to Colonel S n. You see, I 

[118] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

cannot transfer from my present job without con- 
siderable wire-pulling, so I think it is better to 
hang on and work for my promotion and that 
cream collar. That would result in pay almost 
equal to that of a commission. 

I am beginning to realise that I cannot remain 
in my present position for the "duration." You 
see, the war will have to come to an end some day, 
and the stupendous sum of 275. 6d. ( 145. deducted 
for board) would undoubtedly leave me in the 
position of Old Mother Hubbard, and without 
her spirit of enterprise. I think that earning a 
little more money is quite compatible with playing 
the game through as I mean to play it. 

The usual round of work was broken last week 
by an invitation to perform at a concert as part 
of the programme. Three of us went, two girl 
vocalists and myself. The boys who were getting 
up the concert had kept our presence a secret — as 
a surprise for their friends — so when the first 
girl appeared, the audience did not know that she 
was the genuine feminine article until she began to 
sing. We made a great success, but it would have 
been still greater if our items had been better se- 
lected. The boys out here are so very mixed that 
one never knows what to offer them in the way of 
entertainment. Sometimes it is a quaint little 
song or poem that goes home best; at others such 
a number misses fire most awfully. Many a time, 
on looking at the faces in front of me, I have 

[119] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

suddenly had a spasm of regret that I was not 
"Tottie Coughdrops" of the "Levity Co." 

We are getting up a concert of our own next 
week, and to me has been allotted the task of 
rehearsing a sketch. My hair-raising trouble is 
to assemble my cast. They all work at different 
hours, and none of their free times seem to click 
with mine. We are also forming a hockey team. 
Practice takes place in a field at the back of the 
camp, to the delight of the small boys — ditto the 
big boys who expect to challenge us shortly with 
broomsticks. I have never played hockey, but I 
am pining to hit something, somehow and some- 
time, so it will serve. 

Bye-bye, dear. Hope on — hope ever, 

And love your 

Thomasina. 

P.S. — I began by saying "Just a line," so take 
heed of the day when I inflict you with a real 
letter. 



[120] 



XXXII 

From Somewhere in France, 
February 14th, 19 18. 
Dearest Peachikins, 

I do wish you could find a resting-place some- 
where in the country. For one who is just be- 
ginning to recover from a long stretch of nervous 
prostration, town is no place in which to remain. 
I learn that there has been considerable damage 
to property in our immediate neighbourhood. 
You never mention any details — and, of course, I 
guess the reason — but do let me know if any of 
the old landmarks have suffered, or disappeared, 
just to break the shock for me on my return. 
Newspaper reports are about as much good as a 
sick headache, and out here I can only sit and 
wonder and pray. 

I had a spasm of homesickness the other night. 
I went to the cinema — -first time for weeks. 
Bootless Baby, done by a London Film Co., a 
very good performance, and the sight of dear fa- 
miliar faces gave me a bad twinge. 

We all went to a dance last night — in a lorry. 
We did not leave the "Halls of dazzling light" 
till past midnight, and while we had been engaged 
in "tripping the light fantastic," the rain had 

[121] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

been steadily falling, and the roads were so thick 
and slithery that the clumsy old lorry ran off the 
pave into the ditch, and once there, said, "J'y suis, 
j'y reste" — and meant it. We were ages being 
dug out, lurching to and fro every few minutes 
with the futile efforts of the pushers and pullers. 
It seemed as if the whole caboodle must turn over. 
There were thirty of us packed inside. It was 
quite dark, and as the lorry sank deeper the spirits 
of some of the passengers rose higher. But noth- 
ing remains stationary for ever, not even a lorry 
in a ditch, and finally we were hauled up, to the 
disappointment (I imagine) of some of our young 
merrymakers. Result of all this — a few "fa- 
tigues" and "C.B.s" handed out to-day. I haven't 
learnt the nature of the misdemeanours, but the 
"fatigues" were scrubbing huts. 

I have never laughed so much in my life as at 
the sight of two of the culprits, one, a wee mite, 
nicknamed "Giggles," a regular little handful, but 
fairly popular; the other a tall, lanky girl, "Bean 
Pole," the rascal of the Corps. They fetched 
their pails and cleaning stuff in a sober and right- 
eous manner, then they removed their frocks and 
put on overalls, tied sacks round themselves, and 
completed their toilette with frilly boudoir caps. 
All went well until the N.C.O. was out of sight 
— then the performance began. 

They proceeded to give imitations of Wilkie 
Bard, with original business. Having washed the 

[122] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

piece of board near the door, they jumped over it, 
and sat in the dry part while they slopped all 
round them, chanting, "Shall we gather at the 
river." When they stood up, the overall of the 
"Bean Pole" barely reached her knees, while that 
of "Giggles'" formed a train all around her. The 
whole business was accompanied by more or less 
appropriate song — sacred and secular — with oc- 
casional yells of, "Order, please !" ; "Silence in the 
Gallery," etc. The last I saw of "Giggles," she 
was lying face down on her bed scrubbing the 
floor beneath with a brush tied to a hockey stick. 
The "Bean Pole" managed to put her foot into 
the bucket, and, in order to dry it, climbed on 
the roof of the hut (the roofs, as you know, are 
curved) and amused herself sliding off, first one 
side, then the other. At this point I concluded 
to rescue her, and took her to the office, before 
she should be caught and given a new, and still less 
pleasant, job. She is an irrepressible little mon- 
key, much too young to be out here at all really. 
She has been put in my office because the power 
that is thinks I can keep some kind of control over 
her. At heart she is a nice kid, and I get on well 
with her, but I wash my hands of all official re- 
sponsibility till I get my "White Collar" to back 
me up in authority. After that my troubles will 
really start, for it will be my fault if she gets 
into mischief. Did I say "If"? 

We are to be moved on after all. Well, no 

[123] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

use grousing, it may be another of those beastly 
blessings camouflaged, so — cheerio! 

Fondest to my dear one, from 

Thomasina. 



[124] 



XXXIII 

From Somewhere in France, 
February 16th, 191 8. 
Peachie Darling, 

Your budget greeted me at dinner-time, and 
I had to go to my own hut to finish reading it. 
I am still a child of very mixed feelings; I have 
tried all the afternoon to simmer down, but I 
am still excited and very, very much worried. My 
dearest, it is your health — you see I can read be- 
tween the lines. I know you are always. thinking 
of, and planning for my future ; but, darling love, 
don't begin to think of "Not being with me many 
years longer." I can't contemplate the separation; 
I can't! — I can't! So you simply must get well 
and strong. A real change is the thing, and you 
positively must arrange for it. 

I am glad that your new lyric has been ac- 
cepted; it ought to make a big hit. You have so 
much good work only waiting to be seen, if only 
you could get well enough to exploit it. 

You can never know what a joy it is to me to 
share with you all my changing impressions and 
emotions. I hope you are able to make sense out 
of my spontaneous and dashed-off epistles. You 
see, once a letter is despatched, I have no idea 
what it is all about. I only remember vaguely that 

[125] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

I have written down everything that has occurred 
to me. I simply had to tell some one my thoughts 
and feelings in this new life, and to whom could 
I speak without reserve, if not to the best and only 
loved one in the world? There have been times 
when you have seemed so far away, and then I 
have made a dash for my pen, and it was like 
holding your hand (while walking in the dark) to 
make sure you were still there. Oh ! my dear, 
I feel altogether different somehow since I have 
been out here; all sorts of things have turned up- 
side down inside of me — perhaps in my head, per- 
haps in my heart. 

You need have no fear that I shall ever again 
lose my mental balance, even temporarily. Life 
has revealed itself in a new aspect; it has become 
a game that must be played through, with stead- 
fastness of purpose, to the end. Army work has 
indeed taught me a great deal even in this short 
time, and I have a thrilling desire to pass the 
lesson on, just for the good there is in it. 

I am working very hard for my promotion, but 
it is impossible to say how long I shall have to 
wait for my white collar. It has been decided 
that we are to move on from here, and it will de- 
pend on the work I go to, or, rather the size of 
the new office staff, whether I am recommended at 
once or not. You see, the regulations allow for 
one clerical forewoman to every six clerks, and in 
our present office there are only four clerks 
(girls) ; that is why I have not yet been pushed up. 

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The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

Now the whole matter will hang fire for a week 
or two. Meanwhile, I have applied for a com- 
mission. Yes, I know I have been a long time 
making up my mind to that step, but now I've been 
and gone and done it; and my Sergeant-major has 
ventured a small bet that my application will be 
accepted within six weeks. I think he is a trifle 
prejudiced in my favour — things don't move so 
quickly in the army. However, nous verrons. 

Some very ugly and absolutely unfounded ru- 
mours concerning the W.A.A.C. are being circu- 
lated abroad (Hun propaganda!) and they are 
causing a great deal of indignation out here. Of 
course we see the English and American news- 
papers, and, in view of the strict regulations, and 
the extremely hard work of the girls, it is tough 
on them that such vile insinuations should find 
either listeners, printers, or readers. Being out 
of England, our rules are extra strict. We have, 
for instance, always to go out in pairs. We are 
never out after dark without a pass, and never 
alone. All this sort of thing is necessary, even 
apart from the reputation of the army, because 
Continental people are so entirely different from 
our own in their ideas, ideals, and standards. We, 
as a nation, think them lax; they think us prudish 
— and it is all simply a matter of custom and point 
of view. 

There is no doubt whatever about the 
W.A.A.C. being a big success out here with the 
army, and it is essential that this success should 

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The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

not be jeopardised by any foolish conduct on the 
part of individuals. That, I think, is the reason 
why such extreme care is being taken of our girls, 
and why the surveillance is so thorough. I will 
cite you an instance that occurred only yester- 
day in the office. One of our little "Feather 
brains" wandered into the typists' office for some- 
thing to read (work being slack for a few min- 
utes), and a certain man, not an Englishman, of- 
fered her a pamphlet; said it would amuse her. 
The kiddie grabbed it, and flew back into our of- 
fice, whereupon our dear, lynx-eyed Sergeant- 
major asked her to hand over to him the paper 
which she was reading. She refused for a time, 
thinking he was fooling, but finally she obeyed. 
Well, after we had all gone back to camp, there 
was a large-sized rumpus with the loaner of the 
booklet. It appears to have been something 
rather tropical even for France. The man said, 
"Oh! well, I apologise, but there is nothing in it 
to shock any woman over twenty, and a French- 
woman would have just laughed at it. Voila!" 
He was genuinely amazed to learn that his apol- 
ogy was not sufficient, and that the matter would 
have to be reported to the head. You see, he 
simply did not understand, and that was all there 
was to it. It was my pleasant job to talk to the 
girl, and explain as well as I could that there are 
things within the experience of some people that 
cannot be grasped by a decent girl's imagination. 
Poor kiddie promptly had hysterics, and was 

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The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

scared out of her wits. Then she became very 
subdued, and we shall have no more trouble with 
her for a day or so ; for a while she will be an 
angeL 

I have told you this incident only to show 
you what a really efficient boarding-school the 
W.A.A.C. really is, and how ill-deserved is all the 
wretched gossip. 

Many thanks for Marcus Aurelius; such a 
lovely edition, and so compact for carrying in my 
pocket. 

I now have to make a dash to catch the night 
mail. It is a beastly, clear, moonlight night. I 
hope it won't bring anything unpleasant your way. 

The fondest love that ever was, darling, 

From your 

Thomasina. 



[129] 



XXXIV 

From Somewhere in France, 
February 20th, 191 8. 
Dear Peachie, 

I am bursting with energy and conscious vir- 
tue this eve. We have a new list of duties in 
camp, at which each clerk takes her turn and be- 
comes "Camp Orderly" for the day. She has to 
"Kick off" with the sounding of "Reveille." To- 
day it has been my turn, and I woke myself three 
times during the night in response to the prodding 
of my subconscious mind, which reminded me that 
I had to start the racket at 6.45. I did it! Oh 
yes ! I roused the camp all right. Indeed, I imag- 
ine some of the slumberers thought the very last 
trump had sounded. Our gong is made of a 
strip of rail, the kind of rail that trains run on. 
It dangles from a crossbar, and when banged with 
an iron hammer (shaped like a drumstick), it 
gives out a large-sized sound. 

When I approached the outfit this morning, I 
found that the hammer had fallen from its perch 
and frozen itself to the ground. Most incon- 
siderate of it, but inanimates will indulge in these 
playful tricks, and Mr. Aurelius (whose front 
names are Marcus Antonius) says: "Do your 
duty whether shivering, or warm, heavy-eyed, or 

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The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

with your fill of sleep," etc., etc. So heavy-eyed 
and shivering I dug out that hammer and then let 
go with all the muscular force that nestles in my 
upper arms. People have no right to be asleep 
anyhow — that is, not when I am awake. 

Oh ! Lordie, but the frost has got us again. 
It seems the coldest of all the cold spells. Pipes 
and boilers have gone wonky again, and it is 
"dip your bucket through the ice in the rainwater 
butt" once more. We have a few bad throat 
cases, and the M.O. is a frequent visitor these 
days. Not for this child though! 

We have had a cloud hanging over the camp 
lately, and now it has spread over the office. Two 
of the imps have been getting into mischief again 
— serious enough to bring them within the scope 
of "disciplinary action." To retail their delin- 
quencies would be too much like telling tales out of 
school; but, having "called the tune," they are 
certainly "paying the piper." Poor little mon- 
keys! Three days "C.B." with fatigues (jolly 
hard fatigues), and fines and things besides. Or- 
dinarily, a case of "C.B." means merely having to 
stay in camp when off-duty, but on this occasion 
the miscreants have not even been allowed to go 
to their work at the office, and have been reported 
to their respective C.O.s. Rather horrid that. 
They are good kiddies at heart; it was just sheer 
devilment. They knew perfectly well the risk 
they were running, and have admitted, in confi- 
dence, that the fun was nothing like worth the 

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The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

price they have had to pay for it, and that going 
on the "razzle" is not what it is cracked up to be. 

Our dear old lamb of a colonel is quite con- 
cerned. He has a daughter about the same age 
as the imps in question, and I fancy his role of 
judge-mentor is not altogether congenial to him. 
So it is not alone the way of the transgressor that 
is hard. Speaking of transgressors, did I tell 
you about the "rascal" dancing at night in her 
pyjamas on the roof of the wash-houses (the only 
flat roof in the camp), and the other little repro- 
bates standing round and flashing their torches on 
her so that she should not fall off and break her 
back? Wasn't it the limit? I hate to think what 
might have happened if friendly persuasion had 
not induced her to descend before she was caught 
by some one in authority. 

If I seem to dwell on our little scandals, it is 
not for the pleasure of trolling them out, but only 
just to prove to you how severe our regulations 
are. 

Our Irish orderly at the office went to ask 
about his leave the other day, and his officer 
told him that as he had been a bad boy he had 
seriously interfered with his leave. "Yes, sir," 
says Pat, "but I haven't been a bad boy since I 
was bad, so I'd like to be getting home in March." 
The officer had no reply ready, and simply waved 
Pat away. And that is what I must do with this 
letter. I am, as usual, writing in the office, be- 
tween spasms of work, and Don Whiskerandos 

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The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

(otherwise my blessed Sergeant-major) has just 
dumped a heap of files down beside me — a gentle 
reminder that the army is not paying me the whole 
of my stupendous wages in order that I may at- 
tend to my private correspondence. 
Bestest of all things, darling, 

Your Thomasina. 



[133] 



XXXV 

From Somewhere in France, 
February 25th, 19 18. 
Peachie Darling, 

I am thrilled by your out-of-town excursions 
in search of a healthful resting-place. The old 
Georgian Mansion, now a hotel, sounds fascinat- 
ing, and should be an ideal spot for you, if it is 
not too near the river. Our town abode is indeed 
a White Elephant, and has long outgrown its use 
as far as we are concerned. Can't you invite the 
War Office to take over the house? I don't know 
for what purpose, that is none of a civilian's busi- 
ness. The billiard-table might come in handy if 
beds were short. Privates at the top, and an of- 
ficer in balk. And they could have target practice 
in the garden — and "taters" all round the sides. 

Talk about an Englishman's home being his 
castle — it is nothing but a jolly old jail these days; 
and the jailers — sometimes called "domestic ser- 
vants" ! There is only one remedy — send them 
all out here, where they would have to pump 
up the water for the day at 6 a.m. It is a healthy 
sport, especially when the pump is frozen, and one 
has to lie on one's tummy at the edge of the pond 
and hack at the ice, then, having obtained water, 
carry it up to the camp in one's frozen fist. 

[134] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

We hear all about the food difficulty from the 
soldiers back on leave, but we experience little of 
it here. Of course we are rationed, and there are 
certain things we never have. For instance, I 
have not tasted green vegetables, fish, or eggs 
since I left England. Sometimes I dream of spin- 
ach and turnip-tops, and I have a morbid fear that 
I may one morn awake to find a "Brussels Sprout" 
somewhere on my body — like a birth-mark. But, 
after all, I don't really mind. Nobody does. If 
there is one thing the army inculcates more than 
any other, that thing is adaptability, and the fact 
that one never knows exactly what quantity or 
kind of food one is going to get for dinner stimu- 
lates the imagination, and adds zest to the dull 
routine of eating. 

Some days we draw no meat, other days plenty 
of meat and no "spuds"; sometimes neither meat 
nor "spuds," but dumplings and onions. We 
never have bread served with dinner, and some 
days the bread ration is smaller than others. The 
point is that we always have enough food — and 
it is good. We are just now rioting on fig and 
date puddings — raisins are out of fashion. Last 
week we had jam; this is marmalade week. 

In some sections of the community it is thought 
that the army is "hogging" all the food, but that 
is untrue ; it is simply carrying on with what there 
happens to be most of at the moment. To return 
to your kitchen staff. Well! I am not usually 
spiteful, or vindictive, but insubordination among 

[135] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

women who have been as well cared for and pam- 
pered as they calls for swift measures. They 
would find their level in the army — but they are 
not of the volunteering kind. So why are they not 
conscripted? 

I enclose you a couple of photographs — efforts 
of a local photographer. The one with the grin 
is supposed to be most like me, and to represent 
my habitual expression. I hope it won't irritate 
you when you have seen it a few times — grins 
usually have that effect. 

Bless you, my love, 

Thomasina. 



[136] 



XXXVI 

From Somewhere in France, 
February 27th, 19 18. 
Peach Darling, 

I hope the rough sketches I sometimes enclose 
explain themselves — they refer to incidents I have 
mentioned from time to time. Of course I can't 
really draw, more's the rjity, for such a wonder- 
ful picture-book could be made of our everyday 
life. 

We gave a party in camp last week — gigantic 
success. I send herewith a copy of the invita- 
tion sheet. We did things in great style — beau- 
coup flowers, and crinkly paper for lamp-shades, 
caps and aprons for the waitresses. The latter 
looked very smart, all different colours. 

We had three prizes for the whist drive — a 
tobacco pouch, fifty cigarettes, and a "booby." 
This was really sweet — a little rubber doll, dressed 
as a girl in khaki. Her uniform was perfect, and 
complete to her haversack. After the whist there 
was a short concert, and, as usual, we had quite a 
difficulty to turn the boys out. They do enjoy 
themselves so much in the camp, and appreciate 
every item that is got up for their amusement. 

I have just picked up a paper containing an of- 
fensive paragraph regarding the W.A.A.C. Oh! 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

my dear, it does make one boil to read these foul 
stories and infamous lies. The dainty suggestion 
in question is — that we are actually sent out here 
for immoral purposes. What is the meaning of 
it all? Is it a cowardly attempt to stop recruiting 
among decent girls? And by whose permission is 
all this slime circulated? The girls in our camp 
have been very much upset about these ever-re- 
curring rumours. And so we had a sort of mass 
meeting in the recreation hut one night recently. 
You see, they take these things to heart — not so 
much on their own account as on account of those 
belonging to them at home. Of one thing I am 
certain, however, the false accusations will be 
lived down. 

There are in England more spirited, patriotic 
women than there are cowards, and if there were 
a chance of the W.A.A.C. reputation being seri- 
ously in jeopardy, I am sure our home girls would 
rise to the occasion, and realise that it was their 
job to join our corps at once, and so put a stop 
to all this evil report. We have all seen the 
posters — "Every kind of work for every kind of 
woman" — and we know that, just as a chain is 
only as strong as its weakest link, so the reputa- 
tion of any community is no better than that of its 
worst member. That is why we have such strict 
rules, and disciplinary action for any breach of 
those rules. We are out here to work, and we 
do work. Whew ! I had better stop. I am not on 
the stump for the corps, but I can't help getting 

[138] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

hot when I see "the truth youVe spoken twisted 
by knaves to make a trap for fools." 

Well, dear, it seems that I am to get my special 
desire in, and with my promotion, for I am to be 
a clerical forewoman, not a hostel forewoman. I 
am very glad, because the latter has never in- 
terested me, as I have so often told you. My 
white collar should come along in three to four 
weeks from now. I am moving with the service 
in about ten days. The place of our destination 
has a more important office with a large number 
of girls. There will have to be a forewoman — 
and that forewoman is to be yours devotedly. 
My three months' work with this service, good 
report, etc., is to work it. I hear that I am to 
be "recommended" just as soon as we arrive in 
our new place ; the appointment may take a week 
or two to confirm, but it is actually going to hap- 
pen. I am assured of this. 

As the office grows, and the number of girl 
clerks increases, I shall be able to get my commis- 
sion as a "Technical Administrator" and remain 
with the service. Having gone thus far in this 
kind of work, I am rather keen on promotion in 
the same service, instead of changing over. It is 
just as important and useful as going into that job 
for which I pined three months ago, that is, from 
the war-work point of view, and the sacrifice from 
the financial end must be made — and made will- 
ingly — more especially in consideration of the 

[139] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

scandalous stories about the W.A.A.C. It seems 
to me that now is the time for every girl who 
cares at all for the status of women to "Stand 
by" — to do her level best, and to behave herself. 
And thousands are doing all this gladly, not per- 
haps with any hope of here and now, but rather to 
hasten those happy days which are at present in 
the making. Sacrifice means much more to the 
very young. Girls of twenty and under naturally 
consider themselves entitled to a few more years 
of pleasant adventure, and this would be their 
right and their portion if the world were at peace. 
But as the world is really in the throes of a new 
birth, it behoves every one to think of the whole 
and not of the part, and to see to it that the new 
life which is to replace the old shall be worthy 
of those who have already paid the supreme price 
in the greatest struggle humanity has ever known. 

Oh! dearie! Here I be, preaching again, but 
I really feel what I so inadequately express, and 
I must let off steam sometimes, somehow, and 
you know what I mean, however crudely I put it. 

Just imagine, darling, the camp, our camp, as 
I see it — a dead-and-alive hole. Numbers of girls 
carrying on from day to day — little comfort, no 
luxury, and no complaints, all honestly trying to 
live up to their uniform. Truly they are wonder- 
ful, and something big, and worth while must 
come out of it all. 

It is a mercy for you that here my paper has 

[140] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

run out. I'll write again in a couple of days. This 

is more in the nature of a threat than a promise. 

Always and ever your own, 

Thomasina. 



[Hi] 



XXXVII 

From Somewhere in France, 
March ^th y 191 8. 
Peachie Mine, 

It is ages and ages since I wrote you, but, as 
the "Grape Nuts" advertisement says, "There's 
a reason." Fact is, I have been at my very lowest 
ebb for over a week. I think the wind began it, 
and then I somehow got fed up with everything in 
general. I had horrible yearnings for real civi- 
lisation, quiet voices, and gentle manners. And 
oh ! for the physical balm of a pair of linen sheets ! 
I would have bartered what remains of my soul 
for one hour's home comforts. 

Why not vent it all on paper? you will ask. 
Darling, I tried, and I just couldn't. A helpless 
sort of "What's the good of anything — noth- 
ing!" enveloped me. I have been steeped in the 
doldrums. It sounds a little like malaria, doesn't 
it? Well, this place is a bit relaxing — something 
like Bath (without the admirable sanitation) — 
and perhaps that accounts for my feeling so aw- 
fully, awfully tired. I am very glad we are going 
to the seaside. We are supposed to be moving 
from here on the 16th — I say "supposed," for 
one never can be sure how long Army orders hold 
good. I know very little about our new quarters 

[142] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

except that there is a W.A.A.C. camp there al- 
ready, and attached thereto some girls whom I 
have met. My office job will be somewhat differ- 
ent from that here, and the hours will be better. 
It will be a great relief to cease work for the day 
at 6.30, and have a decent long evening to myself. 
Here, all the time not occupied by work is spent 
in running to and fro — office — camp — camp — of- 
fice — and recently the work has been much harder. 
No time or opportunity these days to write my 
letters at the office. The camp has been more 
than a bit irky lately, especially in the evenings. 
There is a concert in preparation, and the re- 
hearsals are unceasing, endless choruses, popular 
ditties and jingles, and, unfortunately, an entire 
absence of anything like talent. The numbers are 
being "executed" in the stern sense of the word. 

Happening to be off duty the other night, I 
wanted very much to write to you, but where could 
I go away from the sound of that terrible piano? 
A brain wave ! I would soak out my lethargy in 
a warm bath, roll into my blankets, and write my 
letter there in bed. Alas for my hopes! The 
piano sounded as near as before, and was giving 
out rag-time is response to a violent assault. I 
tried in vain to collect my scattered senses, and to 
concentrate on the letter I intended to write, and 
all that resulted was this crazy doggerel that 
jumped into my brain, suggested, I suppose, by 
the turn, turn, turn in the recreation hut. 

[143] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 



"We've entered the Army, 
We're here for the War, 
We're soldiers of sorts 
With our A.B.64." 

(A.B.64 is the familiar term for our pay-book. 

"Oh, our beef that is 'bully,' 
And our fine Tickler's jam, 
We work and we drill, 
And we never say d n." 

I stifled this drivel only to hear this other play- 
ing leap-frog among my upper works. 

"They say a heap of rotten things about us, 
Which every one out here well knows are lies, 
For only cowards, freaks, and Huns would flout us, 
The courage of the army never dies. 

"We have joined the women's army for duration, 
And we mean to keep our promise to the end, 
And we'll build ourselves a splendid reputation, 
That will make our foe to-day to-morrow's friend." 

Yes, my dear, I'm just a blithering idiot, and 
the worst part of it is — I know it. Is it the spring- 
time that is responsible, think you? Honestly, 
I think I may be just a trifle overworked. I really 
love work, but I am not a hog about it, especially 
when it cuts out my letters to you. 

[144] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

I have wads to say — but it is all blurry just 
now. 

So, God bless you. Just squeeze my hand in 
thought — and I may feel it. Who knows? 

Lovingly, 

Thomasina. 



Ii45] 



XXXVIII 

From Somewhere in France, 
March 12th, 19 18. 
Peachie Love, 

Your letters arrive with splendid regularity, 
and in between I seem to get your wjreless mes- 
sages, so that I never feel alone. Thanks for the 
magazine; the parcel has not yet arrived, but 
there is time enough. We leave here on Saturday 

the 1 6th, and my new address will be . 

In a way I shall be sorry to leave G.H.Q., and 
shall miss the camp that has been my home these 
three months and more. She u wos very good to 
me, she wos." You will smile as you recall the 
number of times I have kicked at the camp, and 
all that have dwelt therein, but "Blessings do 
brighten as they take their flight," for a very cert. 
A "Bromide ?" Yes! 

I have mentioned that we are to go to the sea- 
side, and I find we are to live in billets. That 
sounds like "a bit of alright" — but doubtless I 
shall find an al-wrong in good time. 

The Chief Controller, accompanied by the C.C. 
from Home, paid us a visit yesterday. Beaucoup 
excitement and tidying up of huts and personal be- 
longings. I just caught sight of the visitors, and 
that was all. My application for an Administra- 
te] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

tor's job has not gone through yet because, rough 
luck, the official form which I have to fill in is 
"out of stock.'" I shall have to ask for another 
from my new boss. I shall then be a forewoman 
however, and the application may carry more 
weight! So perhaps the few days' postponement 
will hasten rather than retard my chances. You 
see, it is a technical administrator's job that I 
am after, that will keep me in the service. It is 
bound to come off, because I was born lucky! 

I hear the raids have been busy in your neigh- 
bourhood, and that some very dirty work has been 
done. I hope it is only rumour. Oh ! I do wish 
you were out of town. The constant racket is 
too much of a strain for any one who is not quite 
fit. One blessing — you are not so ill as you were 
at this time last year. 

March 14-th. 
The above didn't get posted. Obvious, you 
will say — and now yours with the real account of 
the skirmish has just come in. What a brutal 
experience ! It makes me feel something of a 
Cuthbert. Not that I yearn to be transferred to 
a noisier spot — it would interfere with my work, 
which I take the liberty of pronouncing good, such 
as it is — but I feel that instead of running into the 
battle I have run away from it. We have plenty 
of the "Birdies" passing over head, but they 
haven't paused to leave their cards. The only 
excitement we get is a view of the prisoners who 

[147] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

have been brought down and are being conveyed 
into X.Y. Barracks. This happens pretty fre- 
quently. 

God bless you, dear, 

Your own Thomasina. 



[148] 



XXXIX 

From a New Somewhere in France, 
March iSth, 191 8. 
Peachie Mine, 

There is a popular ditty, I believe, that says, 
"I do like to linger at the seaside, I do like to be 
beside the sea," and I feel rather that way inclined 
myself. I have never been at this place before, 
and you have never seen it, but it is quite nice, 
and after life in a camp the wee touch of civilisa- 
tion is very welcome. The air is clear and brac- 
ing, and there is a sort of "Very good for you" 
sensation. 

My first impression of my new surroundings 
was, as usual, bad. I hated everything, and every- 
body, but luckily that fit has passed, and on the 
whole I am glad of the transfer. 

We had great excitement moving from the old 
stand — a bonfire going in the yard for two or 
three days — u the papers." 

We came here by road, men and luggage in 
lorries, and the first arrangement was that the 
girls were to travel on these same lorries, occupy- 
ing the front seats. I foresaw more "Adven- 
tures," for a lorry is a clumsy, shaky sort of con- 
veyance for a joy-ride. You can imagine our 
feeling of importance when we discovered a nice 
little "Daimler" waiting to take us over. 

[149] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

At the hostel here I found several girls whom 
I met in England, and others who were with me 
originally at G.H.Q., but what think you of run- 
ning up against old soldiers whose numbers are 
seventeen and fifty-two? My number runs into 
five figures, as you know. I was filled with awe ! 
There are twenty here who will soon have com- 
pleted twelve months' service and will be wearing 
two blue chevrons! 

I gather from A.'s letter that you are really 
closing up the house at last. I am awfully glad 
to think of you being out of it for a while. You 
will be so much better away from town. Golly! 
but I do wish you were here. Before the seal 
is set on all the rooms, do fish out some of my 
woollen vests, and if they are not moth eaten, I 
will carry on with them presently. No use at- 
tempting to wear cotton even in summer, as there 
is no chance of changing clothing in the daytime, 
and, if you get wet, well! you just remain wet till 
bedtime. Apropos ! I have caught a beastly cold 
— swallowed a few million germs, relics of bygone 
colds, while we were turning out the old office. 

March 21st, 
Waited for yours before posting the above. 
Now it has come and is not very reassuring. These 
relapses are most discouraging, but try to remem- 
ber this time last year, when things were so much 
worse. We are going to have a fine spring and 
summer. So cheer up ! It is bad luck that you 
[ISO] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

cannot find any quiet, healthy spot to retire to — 
worse luck that quiet spots, when they are found, 
are generally so deadly dull that one whose upper 
story is normal gets bored stiff! 

Isn't that sort of detached feeling awful? / 
get it in waves — more so here than at G.H.Q. 
I find myself gazing at the crowd, and wondering 
if they are real, or if I shall just blink and find 
them all disappeared. As a matter of fact the 
girls here are quite nice, select and proper, and all 
that, and yet I have to make such heroic efforts to 
be interested. Rather bad that, eh? I suppose 
good behaviour, as laid down in regulations, is a 
bit dull, so you see, once again, I find myself want- 
ing to hunt with the hounds and run with the 
hare. And I pull up short and kick myself just as 
a reminder that I have thrown in my lot with the 
hounds and the freedom of the hare is not to be 
mine till war is over. All this will tell you that 
I am not yet "settled" in my new quarters. I was 
moved into another house yesterday. Our col- 
ony consists of three houses more or less close 
together, and I share my billet room with four 
others. This is something entirely new to me— 
I am excepting the few weeks at the hostel on the 
English coast. Even our dormitories at the Con- 
vent were divided off into cubicles. Well! the 
lack of privacy may be compensated by interesting 
revelations. The girls are so extremely young 
that I feel like their Grandma. 

You ask about my "White Collar." Alas! the 

[I5i] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

Army, like Providence, works in a mysterious way 
its wonders to perform, and this visible sign of 
promotion will not encircle my neck just yet. 
Nothing to do with me. Two or three other 
things have to take place first — things that do not 
concern me at all — then I fall into line. These im- 
portant happenings are being held up, so auto- 
matically / am being held up too. I am horri- 
bly annoyed about it, but it can't be helped. It 
is this moving stunt that has knocked everything, 
temporarily, sky high. There are moments when 
I am tempted to flee the whole bag o' tricks. For- 
tunately I can't do it with any decency. I say 
"fortunately," for of course I should have no use 
for myself ever afterwards, but oh! I do wish I 
were not so restless. The real truth is, that I 
have not yet found my own particular niche. 
Even in the W.A.A.C. there should be a job for 
me and for me only — and I shall keep hustling 
till I find it. Good-bye, darling. You have the 
fidgets, but if it helps you at all, 

So also has yours lovingly, 

Thomasina. 



[152] 



XL 



From the Same New Place in France, 
March 26th, 19 18. 

This, dear Peachie, is a little letter to you, 
about you. Your last upset me not a little. I 
read so much more than you wrote. Oh! my 
dearest, don't lose heart. Everything is looking 
critical just now; the nerves of the whole world 
are stretched to the snapping point, and in con- 
sequence of this we are all more or less dazed, and 
unequal to mastering our own comparatively un- 
important affairs. There is a tidal wave of emo- 
tion threatening to sweep us off our feet; I, who 
am well and strong, am being affected by it, and 
for the past five days have suffered acutely an in- 
describable, indefinable disturbance. 

We grow accustomed to calling it "nerves," 
and we lay the responsibility to the high wind 
or any trivial thing that comes our way; but I 
have become convinced since I have been out here 
that it is something much bigger, something soul 
scourging, universal, and profoundly significant; 
and that there is an end which will justify the 
means. If we do not compel ourselves to grasp 
this view of it, we must succumb to the violence of 
the storm, and be carried away — whither? Per- 
haps to encounter another storm with fewer straws 

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The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

to clutch at. I am sending you a straw, dear, and, 
believe me, a straw has, ere now, renewed hope in 
the drowning, and helped him gain the shore. 

Of course I may not be making myself quite 
clear, but I want to tell you how things feel to me, 
in the hope that the knowledge may help you. It 
needs so much effort to keep sane and level in our 
views, because we are so very weak while we 
work alone; but every attempt to conquer the per- 
sonal difficulty makes it easier for the whole, and 
thus easier in the long run for each individual, in- 
cluding ourselves. 

Out here the effect of psychic disturbance is so 
startlingly visible to those who can detect it at all. 
I watch the girls — their fits of fed-upness, irrita- 
bility, home-sickness. I know it all so well, for, 
alas! I am not immune. I am, however, blessed 
with the gift of seeing, and understanding, and 
when the spell passes, and I "come to," I have 
a good laugh at myself — and make resolutions 
against the next wave. It shall not engulf me. 

You will now understand why I ha z not been 
writing so frequently of late. I was in no con- 
dition to write normally, so I stayed my hand for 
a few days. I am hoping that things have been 
going better with you. Do keep up your courage, 
and don't give way to the temptation to lay down 
the work which your love inspired for so many 
months. 

We never know how much unexpected labour 

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The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

and trouble will fall to us at the undertaking of 
a new job. Do you suppose I knew what this 
clerking business was going to mean? But to give 
up in the midst of it all makes us so unhappy, and 
puts us miles back in the great Scheme of Things. 
So I beg you to carry through the task you have 
so nobly undertaken. Think of the work you 
have started-, and left unfinished within the past 
five years ! — all lying on the shelf — because there 
was no incentive strong enough to compel you to 
go on. Oh! I understand so perfectly. You had 
mistaken the sand for rock, and had built your 
house thereon. You perceived the hideous mis- 
take of it all — and so nothing more was worth 
while. But this other job was different. You had 
the most beautiful, and only real motive in the 
world for taking up your pen — and after so much 
devotion it would be very sad to give up when 
your labour of love is so near fruition. Keep that 
aspect of it in your mind, and don't let anything 
or person disturb the real inner you. Besides all 
this, darling, you musn't lose sight of the fact that 
you are all I have in the world, the one being on 
whom I can rely for sympathy, courage, and real 
companionship in this weird struggle. If I hadn't 
you, it would be, oh ! so much harder to tackle my 
job, which is sometimes very much of a trial. I 
wish I were with you to put my arms round you 
and just whisper a word of love. 

Heigho! Never mind — I am doing the best 

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The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

I can from a distance, all my highest and power- 
fulest thoughts go out to you. 
Bye-bye for a day or two, 

God bless you, Fondest as ever, 

Thomasina. 



[156] 



XLI 

From Somewhere in France, 
March 31st, 19 18. 
Yes, Peachie Dear, 

I know there has been a long gap, but really 
I am so tired of writing — I mean tired of the 
mechanical act — that I could pitch every pen and 
pencil into the sea. 

Before I came here I had quite an absorbing 
job, but the work I am now engaged on is a bit 
tedious. 

So, you see, Army and Theatrical life do not 
differ very much after all; in the latter a really 
"fat" part is usually followed by a regular "dud." 
Talking of the old life, what or whom do you 
suppose I collided with on entering the hostel 
here? A girl with whom I was associated dur- 
ing my very last engagement ! ! 

No! I scorn to make use of the usual plati- 
tude; you can imagine the buzz, buzz that ensued. 

This place is a feeble imitation of the Sahara 
Desert. Such persevering sand, it steals into your 
shoes and into every seam of your clothing, not 
to mention eyes, hair, and food — in fact it gets 
into every old where. 

We have started summer-time at the office, and 

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The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

I manage to leave work in time for a walk by day- 
light. 

This sitting at a desk all day makes one very 
soft, lazy, and round shouldered. Never mind, 
if I have any luck (translate luck into progeny), 
I shall have some answer ready in the days to 
come when I am faced with the classic, "Mummy, 
what did you do in the Great War?" 

I have started to read again; there was really 
no time at the other camp, and inclination died 
down. Now, however, I am in a nice little town, 
with some good bookshops, boasting a fine selec- 
tion of books in that nice Conrad edition which 
has superseded the Tauchnitz. We haven't a 
library in the camp, so three or four of us who 
have similar tastes club together, take turns at 
the reading, and if any one has a keen desire to 
"have and to hold," she buys the others out. 

The semi-civilisation we are now enjoying 
makes it more difficult to realise that we are on 
Active Service, and we actually begin to "prink" 
up. While living in huts we grew accustomed to 
inconveniences, and, owing to the dearth of sup- 
plies, we ceased to pay any attention to our per- 
sonal appearance. Here we have large mirrors in 
the houses. I approached mine very cautiously at 
first — I wanted to break myself to myself gently. 
And those of us who have always had an element 
of refinement in our lives do revel in the extra 
comfort. 

Being a summer resort in France, I don't need 

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The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

to tell you that nearly every house which is not 
an estaminet or cafe, is a hairdresser's. Well! 
fill in the next line for yourself, and don't forget 
that neatness is the second duty of a soldier. 

There are a few lingerie shops to break the 
monotony, and they ought to be compelled to keep 
their shutters up while the war is on. 

The sight of pretty pretties to us who have only 
coarse worsted undies, and one frock, leaves the 
tortures of Tantalus far behind. Apropos, my 
breeks have gone on strike, so I have "indented" 
for some at our clothing canteen. You would 
laugh at the colour of our stockings — the "issue" 
kind, after many washings — anything from pink 
to yellow. 

Oh! but it is a treat to have one's head neat 
and tidy (if only on the outside), and all for two 
francs. 

How does our doggie boy bear the partial 
breaking-up of the one-time tranquil household? 
Dear little man! I miss him so much. We have 
three dogs here — darlings. At our last camp 
we had only one pet, a pig. Did I tell you about 
him? His name was "Bubble," and we were just 
on the point of buying him a wife, by name 
"Squeak," when we had to strike camp. 

Dearest, don't think me frivolous. All this 
tattle is just an attempt to forget for awhile the 
appalling carnage going on up the line. One's 
feelings about the war remain the same as ever, 
quite confident, and cheerful, but the terrible story, 

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The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

as we receive it almost hourly, leaves us numb 
with horror. Nearly every girl in the camp has 
a relative in the thick of the fight and all have 
friends galore. Nevertheless they are carrying 
on as usual and keeping splendidly brave and 
hopeful; but you should see their dear faces at 
mail time ! Three of the girls who share my bed- 
room have lost their sweethearts in this war, and, 
alas ! these girls are not of the easily consoled 
kind. Still they go on and on like thousands of 
other women — no outward sign of grief, but 
sometimes, in the quiet evening, one of them will 
tell her story, and then we all cry together. 

Later. 

Just paused to read your latest. Don't be 
anxious, dearest; I blush to say it, but I am in 
no more actual danger than are you while living 
in London town, so set your mind at rest. 

This last ghastly week has been full of local, 
as well as general excitement. A few days ago 
the remainder of our old camp was suddenly sent 
on here. When I came, with the few, we trav- 
elled in style, as I told you, but this second and 
larger contingent was transferred in lorries, and 
the girls had a hustling time. They brought their 
bedding and furniture, as well as their personal 
belongings, and tragedy! — the hut they were to 
occupy temporarily lay about 300 yards beyond 
the end of the road, so they had to carry all the 
stuff over that stretch of loose sand, in drenching 

[160] 



The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

rain. Poor dears! I do wish I had been with 
them. 

Their blankets are still drying. The hut in 
question being too small, we have taken in part 
of the overflow; consequently we are too crowded 
to move, but it is only for a day or so, and mean- 
while everybody is in high spirits and thoroughly 
enjoying the muddle. 

The place where these newcomers are to be 
quartered is three miles from here, in a beautiful 
spot. I have been out to see it. I walked through 
lovely pinewoods, and over the golf links — sim- 
ply gorgeous ! I was reminded that the dear old 
land is worth taking care of, and that, despite all, 
the world is a beautiful place. 

I do appreciate the fact that I can see the Lon- 
don papers the day they are published. Also we 
get details that are not always in the papers. 
There is a mighty bulge in the line, there may 
even be a break soon, but it will be mended. 

It is curious, but even here, with news coming 
through red-hot, and rumours rife, I do not feel 
the least bit anxious. As we say, I haven't "got 
the wind up." I marvel myself at the absolute 
confidence I have. It is unlike me to be sure of 
things, but I know this one thing, and that is, We 
shall win. 

It overwhelms the finite imagination, and daz- 
zles the brain to think of thousands of lives being 
mown down as they are being mown down now. 
Imagine the enemy still advancing — and advanc- 

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The Letters of Thomasina Atkins 

ing in massed formation ! That is how they were 
wiped out, only on a smaller scale, in '15 and '16. 
There must be, and there is, a reason behind it all 
— they have got to be exterminated. 

Heavens above ! but Peace and Liberty are 
precious things indeed, when humanity can, and 
will pay such a price to secure them. 

With all this upheaval I have had but little 
opportunity of attending to my personal affairs, 
by which I mean reminding the powers that be of 
my promised promotion. But it is coming on all 
right, and if I am the least bit impatient, it is 
only because I think that it would help me to do 
a bit more than I am now doing. I feel I should 
be of more use in a more responsible position. 
My next letter may tell the tale — but, whether it 
does or not, doesn't really matter. 

I am only one of many thousands who are all 
doing their best to hasten the end; and that end 
is, as I said before, that we shall win. 

We shall Win! We shall Win! 

Good-bye, sweetheart, I have you always in 
mind, and am trying to be 

Worthy to remain 

Your own 

Thomasina. 



[162] 



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